


Adventure in 1922

by siewes



Category: Mary Russell - Laurie R. King
Genre: F/M, London, Oxford, Paris (City)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-03-29 02:03:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 40,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13917039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siewes/pseuds/siewes
Summary: The Adventure in 1922 takes place between the second (A Monstrous Regiment of Women) and third (A Letter of Mary) novels in Laurie R. King's Mary Russell and Sherlock Holmes series.  It is set in the winter of 1922, predominantly in Paris.  Holmes and Russell are sent to Paris by Sherlock's brother Mycroft on a matter of political intrigue.  Along the way, the two sleuths have a chance to meet Ernest Hemingway.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The Adventure in 1922 takes place between the second (A Monstrous Regiment of Women) and third (A Letter of Mary) novels in Laurie R. King's Mary Russell and Sherlock Holmes series.  It is set in the winter of 1922, predominantly in Paris.  Holmes and Russell are sent to Paris by Sherlock's brother Mycroft on a matter of political intrigue.  Along the way, the two sleuths have a chance to meet Ernest Hemingway.

# Chapter 1

**16 November 1922, London**

Tired, hungry and thwarted, Sherlock Holmes arrives at his brother’s rooms on Pall Mall the evening of Thursday, November 16th, 1922.  He can only hope that the sumptuous meal Mycroft is sure to offer will be worth the mental sparring that awaits as he tries to keep the nature of his recent activities from his brother.  Mycroft’s deductive powers exceed even his own, and it will take all his wits to deflect and obscure his brother’s penetrating gaze.  An entertaining game if he didn’t so often lose.

Sherlock remains standing in the sitting room, listening as Mycroft dismisses Mr. Sosa, his longstanding secretary, for the day with a directive to contact to the prefecture of police in Paris first thing in the morning.  Both gentleman direct their attention to Sherlock as they enter the room, Mr. Sosa nodding curtly as he takes his leave, while Mycroft extends a large, soft hand to Sherlock, “Brother, an unexpected but fortuitous visit.”

Sherlock is immediately on his guard, fully aware that Mycroft probably wants to send him to some far-off land to be his eyes and ears. Mycroft may concern himself with all dimensions of the British Empire, but he prefers to do it from the comfort of his rooms.   Sherlock responds with a drawl, “Fortuitous for me or for you?  I’d hoped to impose on you for a meal and a bed but perhaps you’re more inclined to embroil me in some matter of international intrigue.”

“Fortuitous for both of us, I think.  I’ll have Mrs. Cowper prepare another plate at the table.”

“In exchange for my services?” challenges Sherlock.  “The price may be too high.”

“An exchange sounds so transactional,” soothes Mycroft.  “A holiday in Paris.  You could bring Mary.  And there will be danger.  Think of it as dessert.”

Mycroft would, naturally, use an analogy to food.  Where Holmes sees the necessity of it, Mycroft has an almost obscene appreciation and seems to gain in girth with each passing month. With eyebrow raised in irony, “I’m slimming,” retorts Sherlock.

“Come, come.  You look as trim and fit as ever.  Married life suits you.”  A pause, as the two brothers assess each other.  “Or the pursuit of your spouse, at any rate.  You’ve lost your wife again.  I could help you find her,” goads Mycroft.  “You just missed her.”

Less than one minute and Sherlock is already regretting his choice.  He should have stayed at Russell’s flat and tolerated an hour of pleasantries with her housekeepers, the Quimby’s, rather than risk Mycroft’s scrutiny.  The fact is, Sherlock doesn’t know where his wife is and had been looking for her all day.  The question is how Mycroft knows this. “I haven’t lost her, Mycroft.  I just don’t know where she is.  There’s a difference you know.”

Sherlock looks intently at his brother, who remains silent.  “Ah, but you do know.  ‘Just missed her.’  So say a surprising number of Russell’s acquaintances.”  Sherlock takes another pause to consider his brother.  “Did Russell also tell you to point me toward Paris?”

With a low chuckle and a shake of the head Mycroft responds, “No, little brother. Mary left no other clues with me.”  He continues in a conciliatory tone, “And I stand corrected, hidden but not lost.  It would, however, be convenient if she accompanied you on this little errand.  Two errands, actually.  I can make some inquiries if you’d like.”

“No, Mycroft” Sherlock replies coolly and firmly.  “That won’t be necessary.”

“There is some urgency to the Paris affair.  Do you think you’ll be reunited in time for the 7am from Victoria Station?”

Not willing to concede to his brother that he was hard pressed to produce his busy, independently minded, and currently missing wife by morning, Sherlock responds with nonchalance “That’s more than a little urgency, brother, and hardly enough time to prepare for a trip abroad.  We do have obligations here, you know.”

“Obligations you could put on hold, I think.  Dinner for three tomorrow evening then.  We can discuss the details over beef bourguignon.  Between Mary’s appetite for fine cuisine and yours for high stakes puzzles, I’m confident you and Mary can be persuaded.  Do you still desire food and lodging tonight or are your ‘obligations’ too pressing?”

Sherlock considers his options.  He doesn’t have much time to locate Russell, but he can do little before morning.  He may be able to get some information out of Mycroft.  Ignoring the smile curling his brother’s lips, Sherlock replies “Oh no, I’m famished.  And your lodgings would be most welcome.  I’ll just go wash up.”

Sherlock leaves the room knowing that once again he’s been out manoeuvred by his brother but damn if he’s going to show it.  Instead, the two will play their roles for the evening.  Mycroft will offer polite and innocuous conversation over a leisurely meal, avoiding any further mention of Russell or the urgent and dangerous task in Paris.  Sherlock will feign complete disinterest in his brother’s political machinations while the minutes tick away that he is not solving the minor mystery of Russell’s location.  Sherlock will go so far as to prolong the evening’s idle conversation by insisting on a smoke and port after the meal in the hopes of goading his brother into a revealing slip.  Mycroft will refuse to take the bait and remain elusive about if and when he last saw Mary or his plans for Paris.  Although engaged in a duel of wits, neither will show anything but an easy and languid façade.  So continues the childish rivalry between the two astonishingly capable and accomplished brothers.

At long last, Sherlock retires to the room prepared for him and turns his full attention to the pressing issue of reuniting with his wife.  Holmes and Russell have been married now for three months shy of two years.  The immediate thrill of those early months together as husband and wife have settled somewhat into a semblance of routine; Russell often away at Oxford tutoring and continuing her research, and Holmes using their home in Sussex as a base for his research and investigations.  But it would be an overstatement to say that their passion for one another had waned.  Holmes never ceases to marvel at his good fortune, having had a teenage girl stumble into his life just when he thought it was winding to a close, and is now determined to discover and savour every dimension of the most extraordinary woman she’d become.  He knows Russell feels equally blessed to have found such a willing partner in him, ready to match her youth, strength and curiosity with his experience, intellect and offer of adventure.  The thought pleases him that both find the other infinitely interesting; a veritable playground for mind, body and soul.  They are, and here Holmes chuckles at his use of a word he had scorned for so long, quite simply, in love.

Be that as it may, their respective vocations, consulting detective and theologian, draw them away from one another regularly.  Even when they are together, the actual minutes can be rather cantankerous, depending on how either of their respective pursuits is progressing.  Worst of all is when Russell is busy, and Holmes is idle.  The solution Russell devised is equal parts obvious and brilliant; a game of hide and seek.   Russell hides while Holmes seeks.  Holmes is of course famously very good at this game.  Russell may not be as famous, but she has been doubly motivated to become quite creative and accomplished in her own right.  First, she needs to get her work done.  Second, Holmes is most excited, and exciting, when he has a problem to solve.  There is a gleam in his eye and a passionate intensity that Russell finds irresistible.  Holmes finds the game just as stimulating and can be quite creative too, gauging the reward he’ll exact against the difficulty of the hunt.  This is a fact not lost on Russell, adding yet another motive for giving Holmes a true challenge.  Of course, none of this has been openly discussed between the two of them.  If asked, they would surely say it was merely a useful exercise to keep their skills honed.

This particular round of hide and seek has been especially challenging, with Russell eluding him for 3 days already, although he has only been officially looking since that morning.  In light of Mycroft’s request for their help, Holmes could bring an abrupt end to the game.  All he would have to do is place a veiled ad in the morning paper to call the game off and Russell would present herself directly.  But Holmes is disinclined to do so, partly because he has a need to prove himself to his big brother, but mostly because this is, after all, his favourite game.

Three days ago, Holmes, bored and restless, had left Sussex to visit Russell at Oxford.  It was a Monday and she was busy, of course, either meeting with her students or buried behind a stack of books, doing research for her book about Sophia or Hohkma or Sapientia; Wisdom incarnate, apparently.  Holmes tried to interest her in some ‘real’ wisdom, as he called it.   In this instance, it was Landsteiner’s technique for typing blood into 4 distinct groups and its potential use in criminal investigation, but Russell was inexplicably, to his thinking at any rate, disinterested and annoyed.  She had, in fact, progressed to that point of irritation where she spoke through clenched teeth, her head in her hands, and fingers buried in her hair.  Her vexation was curiously beguiling, he thought, even beautiful.  Intrigued, Holmes wondered just how many interruptions it would take before he would command her full furious attention. However, her sudden realization that she was late to her seminar brought that line of inquiry to an abrupt end.  He tried to intercept her at the end of her tutoring only to discover that the woman wearing her hat and coat was in fact not Russell at all.  Tricky.  He searched unsuccessfully for the remainder of the afternoon, which was at least diverting.  Acknowledging that Russell really didn’t want him around, and in deference to matrimonial harmony, he resigned himself to returning to Sussex on the last train of the day.

To the relief of everyone in a 10-mile radius, a letter for Holmes arrived with Wednesday’s afternoon post.  After careful study of the envelope, he deduced with a smile that although not in her hand, it was most certainly from Russell and was surely an invitation to a round of hide and seek.  He further surmised that Mrs. Hudson, having grown quite desperate with him underfoot, must have placed a call to Russell with a plea for help.  It was no doubt Russell’s recommendation that he be sent into town on various domestic errands while she figured something out.  Mrs. Hudson would have made the call Tuesday morning when she had thrown him out of the house to tend his bees.  That gave Russell a scant 24 hours to have put the game in place.  This should, he thought to himself, be easy.

The envelope contained a 4-inch square of silken cloth and a note in Aramaic.  The piece of fabric meant nothing to him; clean, odourless, not from Russell’s wardrobe or in any reference to place or case that he could call to mind.  Similarly, the note was unrevealing; just four words on an unremarkable scrap of note paper.   Although fluent in Arabic, he was not as confident of his Aramaic, and couldn’t be sure his translation was accurate.  His first move required a visit to Oxford to obtain a translation.  Upon arrival, he checked her rooms at college and the Bodleian library as a matter of thoroughness but did not anticipate finding her so easily.  The contacts he made assured him he’d just missed her but not where she was going.  He checked her tutoring schedule to discover her next session wasn’t until the following day which was considerably longer than he was willing to wait.  Besides, she had eluded him the last time.  Just where had she gone that afternoon, anyway?

Holmes tracked down Duncan, Russell’s colleague and fellow tutor at Oxford with whom she’d collaborated on a paper the prior year, just as the young man was entering his seminar.  Duncan regretted that Holmes had just missed Russell but would be thrilled to assist the Great Detective Sherlock Holmes in any way he could.  The two met 90 minutes later at the Eagle and Child.  Fortunately, Duncan was easily able to shed light on the note Holmes had received; “Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin”.  Unfortunately, he was unable to hide his shock that the husband of Mary Russell failed to recognize the famous handwriting on the wall quote from the biblical tale of Belshazzar’s Feast.  Never pleased to be shown his ignorance, even in realms of knowledge he deemed irrelevant, Holmes nevertheless took his humiliation in stride to receive a thorough lesson in the Book of Daniel.

Holmes couldn’t help but smile to himself in appreciation of Russell’s opening gambit, having used just four words to deliver a threat, a jibe and a riddle.  As he learned from Duncan, Belshazzar’s Feast is a cautionary tale of the arrogance of man; the handwriting on the wall a portent of doom.  The quote was a subtle threat that his own hubris would lead to his failure.  The fact that he needed a theologian to understand the clue was a not so subtle jibe from his former pupil that her studies had practical value too.

Holmes was confident that beneath the chide and warning, however, lay a clue in how to find her.  Duncan explained that the biblical phrase is actually a play on words.  When read as nouns the words are monetary units; mina, shekel and parsin or half-shekel, which was exactly as Holmes suspected given the phonetic similarity between mene and mina, tekel and shekel.  When read as verbs, however, the words mean numbered, weighed and divided.  As the story goes, Daniel interprets the words to mean that king Belshazzar’s days are numbered, that he has been weighed and found wanting, and that his kingdom will be divided.  It took a single filling of his pipe, smoked in a quiet corner of the pub after Duncan took his leave, to make the connection between the biblical pun and the swatch of cloth.  Russell had made her own play on words; numbered, weighed, and divided could be generalized to any act of measuring and cutting.  Coupled with the fabric swatch Holmes deduced that Russell was pointing him to the tailors in London who created the bespoke outfits that she preferred.

Holmes hopped the next train to London, only to find the shop had closed early due to, according to the sign on the door, a wedding gown emergency.  Thinking he might be able to circumvent the clue and catch Russell unawares, he went to her lodgings; first her club, the ridiculously named Vicissitude, and then her flat in Bloomsbury.  In both cases he was assured that he’d just missed her, which had become really quite annoying.   A quick glance at the ledger showed that Russell hadn’t been to the club recently.  Likewise, a few pointed questions hidden in polite conversation with the Quimby’s revealed she hadn’t been to the flat for at least a fortnight.  So where is she?

By then it was late, and the obvious course of action was to wait until morning to visit the Elves, the talented couple who fashioned Russell’s practical yet elegant clothing, just as she had intended.  Sherlock considered his options for the night.  With Watson out of the country, the nuisance of the Quimby’s at Russell’s flat, and the relative lack of comfort of his bolt-holes, an overnight at Mycroft’s seemed the best choice.  He also thought that it was just possible to learn something of Russell’s whereabouts through careful questioning of his brother.   He should have known that Mycroft would deduce his predicament and use it to toy with him.  Were they ever to grow up?

After bidding Mycroft goodnight, Holmes retires to the guest room and spends the remainder of the evening carefully reconsidering Russell’s disappearing act Monday, her current location and how he might convince her to leave her work long enough to dine at Mycroft’s.  He also decides to set into motion the necessary arrangements for a trip to France, even though it remains to be seen whether Mycroft can convince them to take up his ‘errands’.  After several phone calls and two pipes worth of contemplation, Holmes settles in for a sound night’s rest, thinking it might be his last for the foreseeable future.

Fortunately, the Elves are early risers and happily usher Holmes into their shop at 7am the next morning, Friday.  They promptly share that he had just missed his wife, to which he replies with extreme annoyance that it hardly seems likely since they have just opened the shop and they should stop wasting his time.  They are both quite taken aback, telling him with stony faces and business-like efficiency that unless he plans to order a suit, he best move along as they have plenty of work ahead of them.  Holmes realizes his mistake and spends the next hour expressing his sincerest apologies, charming his way back into their good favour, and standing still as a statue as they fit him for a new winter suit of the finest wool in the shop.

That hour is not wasted as he uses the time to learn something more of Russell’s movements.  She had, in fact, been in the shop Wednesday, apparently at her leisure before an appointment to have her hair done.  She had spent her time browsing through fabrics and lace, chatting away about going to the theatre that evening with their long-time friend Doctor Watson, and wondering what they recommend she wear.  The evening engagement was of course a ruse, since Watson is away, but a lie she had intended him to discover.  She did not purchase anything but did seem to linger over one particular bolt of fabric.  Fitting complete, Holmes asks to see the fabric she favoured and notes the missing corner that matches the swatch in his pocket perfectly.  Feigning the crimson embarrassment to be expected of a dignified Victorian gentleman, he confirms that this was the sort of fabric most suited to a woman’s undergarments and requests they design something suitable for a husband to present his wife for Christmas.

Holmes leaves the shop with a wry smile, fully aware that Russell is playing with him like a cat with a mouse.  Clearly, he needs to step up his game and find her quickly before he suffers any further embarrassments.  He knows exactly where she intends him to go next; his storage room bolt-hole.  Oh, how she loves her puns.  A bolt of fabric, the mention of Watson, the theatre, and getting her hair done are a clear reference to her very first visit to one of his bolt-holes, dressed as Watson, on the run from the daughter of his arch nemesis, Moriarty.  The question is whether the clue she’s left there is worth the time it would take to retrieve it.  By now he is quite sure that she is back in Oxford, possibly returning there before he’d even left for London.

Standing on the curb outside the shop, Holmes breaks into a broad smile as he flags down a cab.  “Well played, Russell” he says to himself.    He directs the driver to the train station and practically rubs his hands together with relish, because now it’s his turn to set his trap.  That bolt of fabric held another clue that Russell may or may not have intended.  The only way she could have eluded him so soundly that Monday afternoon was if she had a bolt-hole of her own.  He plans to find it, and her, with time to spare before dinner with Mycroft back in London.

Holmes uses the train ride to contemplate exactly where Russell would establish a bolt-hole at Oxford.  With over 30 Colleges and Permanent Private Halls, some in existence since the 13th century, the number of forgotten nooks and crannies hidden among the buildings would be countless.  Her bolt-hole would have to meet her unique requirements.  It would of course be in close proximity to where she spends her time, generally unknown and accessible at all hours.  Unlike his own bolt-holes, where survival was paramount, privacy and discretion would be more important to her than safety or self-sufficiency.  Holmes acknowledges ruefully that Russell’s greatest need so far has been for a refuge from him where she can work uninterrupted.  With that in mind, she would surely add comfort to her calculations. A room at or near the library, her lodging or her classroom, minimally large enough for a table, chair and wash room, and wired for electricity.  Although not strictly required, she’d prefer a space that could accommodate a sofa or bed, natural light and easy access to a hot meal as food preparation was not her strong suit.

Russell’s Friday seminar is in the early afternoon and she would need a bite to eat first.  It is an easy matter for Holmes to work his way backward from there to identify the most likely location for a bolt-hole.  It occurs to him that Russell might accuse him of cheating, waylaying her on her way to work, but feels the discovery of her bolt-hole would be sufficiently within the spirit of the game to secure an honest win and exact his reward.  Holmes circumnavigates the outside of the building where Russell holds her seminar and realizes that there used to be a breezeway running along the ground floor of the southern wall.  It had been subsequently walled in such that the exterior facade now appears to run flush from ground to roof.  Striking a professorial demeanour, he enters the building as if he belongs there and quickly discovers that the original ground floor wall remains, confirming his suspicion that there is substantial space between the original and new exterior wall.

There are 3 large and heavy oak doors, two to the left of centre and one far to the right.  All are locked and bear signs on the doors indicating they are storage spaces.  Of the three, only the right most appears to have been accessed recently.  Suspicious that Russell may be behind the door, he very slowly and quietly picks the lock, slides into the room and closes the door silently behind him.  Although pitch black now with the door closed, he had seen enough upon entering to know the room is crowded with old furniture, paintings, rolled carpets and piles of boxes.  This is obviously not her bolt-hole, but he is sure it must be near.   Holmes runs his fingers along the wall behind him to the left until he comes up short against the corner after just a few steps.  This makes the room half the size he originally suspected.  He stands still as a statue, eyes closed, listening intently for a full three minutes before he hears it; the scratching of pen on paper.

He’s found her, more or less, but now what to do?  He doesn’t know exactly how to get in and it is definitely too risky to bumble about in the dark.  Holmes knows better than to raise Russell’s defences and be at the wrong end of her knife.  Safer to wait hidden for her to leave, let himself in, and await her return, but there isn’t enough time if they are to return to London that day. And it is intolerably dull to simply make himself known.  As it turns out, Russell makes the choice for him, deciding at that moment to leave her hideaway for some lunch before class.  Holmes hears the scraping of a chair, the gathering of books and the dull kick of a rug before a shaft of light appears on the floor behind a dresser set about 18 inches in front of a door to his left.  Swiftly, he presses his back against the wall to the right of the door.  Russell flicks out the light and pulls open the door leaving them both temporarily blinded.

Holmes seizes that moment to spin around through the door, using his momentum to continue the turn so that Russell and her armful of books end up sandwiched between him and the wall inside the bolt-hole.  Holmes anticipates her reaction, swivelling out of the way as she raises her knee and seizing her left wrist before she can grasp her knife, and pins her arm above her head.  Keeping her body and books pinned between him and the wall, he remains completely still for a full 10 seconds, giving her a moment to think.  Holmes can feel her recognition of him as she relaxes against the wall.  Only then does he lean back just enough to ease first one, then another book out from between them, letting them slide to the floor in a heap.  As each book slides away, Holmes gives his wife a kiss, on her temple, her cheekbone, just beneath her ear and down along her neck.  With no further books between them, he presses himself directly against her, left hand sliding down her hip to reach behind her, while his right hand releases her wrist and slowly slides along her inner arm, lingering on her neck as he kisses her deeply and then slides over her breast and abdomen, eventually meeting his other hand behind her.

Only now does Russell make a move.  Lowering her left arm and raising her right to rest on his shoulders.  “Holmes.  Why are you here?”

“Were you expecting someone else?” availing himself of another deep kiss.

“No.  No secret liaisons.  But you, husband, seem to be taking considerable liberties considering you cheated.”

Sliding his hands back over her torso, his thumbs lightly grazing her breasts, he reaches behind her neck, to kiss a trail across her brow, down her cheeks and back to her mouth for a long minute of playful kissing.  Pulling away for a breath, he says “I did not cheat.  It’s not as though I sat in your classroom waiting for you.  I found you hiding in your lair.”

Gently pushing him back a step she replies, “That’s not what I meant.”  She steps to the side and reaches for the light.  “Watch your eyes.”

Holmes blinks for a moment as his eyes adjust before turning around to survey the space.  “Good Lord, Russell.  Is this it?” his eyes darting from the rickety table and stool, the bucket of water and small pile of clothes.  “This is worse than my storage room.”

“Any harbour in a storm, Holmes.”

“More a cliff side perch than a harbour.  I was sure you’d have created a refuge with some comforts in mind.  You could hardly last more than a few days here.”

Russell glances around the room thinking to herself, she’d be hard pressed to last more than a few hours.  Turning away from Holmes to gather her books, “Sorry to disappoint your aesthetic sense, Holmes.  My requirements are not quite as elaborate as yours.  You are welcome to take your leave at any time.”

“Dismissed so soon?  I have been searching for days.”

With a snort, Russell reaches into his pocket and pulls the square of fabric from his pocket.   “Hardly.  You didn’t start before yesterday and didn’t get any farther then the Elves before you showed up here.”

Startled by astute accuracy of that comment, Holmes studies his wife for a long moment.  “My purpose was to find you.  It is more expedient to anticipate where your prey will be rather than follow a trail of riddles placed for the purpose.  Surely I’ve taught you that lesson?  But this is not where you intended me to find you.  Where then?”

“That hardly matters now, Holmes.  Your enthusiasm has made for a rather unsatisfactory result.  You’ve had your kiss, and now I’ve work to do.”

“Meagre recompense for a new suit.”

Russell looks at him and bursts out laughing.  “Good heavens, what did you say to them?”

Sharing in her laughter, the smile crinkling the corner of his eyes, “I may have been a touch impatient.  It does get tiresome to be told over and over that I’d just missed you.”

Russell can’t help but giggle, “That part was rather fun.”

Holmes grunts.  “You could have kept Mycroft out of it.  You knew he’d make the most of it.”

“I wasn’t at all sure you’d seek him out.  Just being thorough.  Another one of your lessons” she says wryly.

“In this case, you may rue your decision.  He is expecting us for dinner.”

“What?  No.  Absolutely not.  There’s still a few weeks left to the term.  I have obligations, you know.”

“So I told him.  But in his understated way he seemed quite keen.  He’s offering you beef bourguignon and me the threat of danger.”

“Keen, indeed.  What’s it to do with?”

“Oh honestly, Russell, how should I know?  You know Mycroft, his web of informants.  He hears intrigue, smells conspiracy and sees opportunity.  I can’t possibly be expected to know what he’s up to now.  Besides, I haven’t given it any thought.”

Russell suspects Holmes is being deliberately evasive.  It must mean a lengthy engagement.  A trip abroad.  With a sigh Russell asks, “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.  Where to this time, Holmes?”

Feigning great offense, Holmes affects the stance and voice of a queen, “Moi? Twice now you treat me unjustly.”  And then with a cajoling tone, “France perhaps.  But for now, Russell, just to London for dinner.  We can decide once we’ve heard what he has to say.  Besides, you can still meet with your students and catch the 3:40 train.”

Russell resigns herself to her fate; missed lunch, a trip to London and then who knows what.  “And you, Holmes?  Will you meet me at Paddington Station?”

Curling his lip in mock disgust as he surveys the room, “I am tempted to stay and make improvements to your bolt-hole.  I really am most disappointed, Russell.  But it will have to wait.  I have my own matters to attend to.  We’ll reconvene at Mycroft’s.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

# Chapter 2

**17 November 1922, London**

That evening Russell and Holmes enjoy a bounteous and delicious meal at Mycroft’s flat.  As is the custom, conversation is kept casual as they eat, waiting to discuss matters of state and Mycroft’s request of them until they adjourn to the sitting room.  Now settled in their respective chairs, port in hand, the men with cigars clipped and lit, Mycroft begins. “I seem to have a problem to which your skills are uniquely suited.  I have recently lost one of my informants.”

“Lost, Mycroft?  He could be found?  Or do you mean he has been found, dead?”

“Yes, quite right, Brother. I stand corrected a second night in a row.  Not all that is hidden is lost.  And lost is a poor euphemism for dead.  The informant and, regretfully, his wife, were murdered four days ago in their home in Paris.”

“Surely this is a matter for the Sūreté?”

“They are investigating, of course.  But I have little confidence that the French authorities will resolve the question adequately.  They remain ignorant of the fact he was one of my agents.”

“It could be unrelated.  Political intrigue is one of the rarer motives for murder.”

“Yes, well.  Given the identity of the agent and the inconvenience of his death I have little doubt that his murder is related to, as you say, political intrigue.”

“Which you find inconvenient to share with the investigators.  So how would you explain our involvement?”

“He was a British national, that should suffice.  Wilson was his name. He’s been with me for years. Good man, very experienced, absolutely pivotal resource since the war. Which leads me to a related matter.  His loss, that is, murder, leaves a potentially disastrous gap in my intelligence network.  I have identified a potential replacement.  An American journalist residing in Paris. I would like you to assess his suitability and, if appropriate, recruit him for immediate service.”

With a grunt Holmes responds, “Journalists.  A vile breed.  I have found their brand of information to be lacking in accuracy and precision, at worst pure fabrication.”

“Yes, well, it is fortunate that you’ve had John Watson to set the record straight,” drawls Mycroft.    “Some journalists do rise above such shortcomings and can make excellent informants.  Hidden in plain sight, they can go anywhere, talk to anyone and no-one questions their motives.”

“You seem to have an especial need for information, Mycroft?  Your best man murdered, the rush to recruit another.  What is this all to do with?”

“What do you know of the Turkish War of Independence?” asks Mycroft in response.

“I know that a few short weeks ago we were hours away from engaging the Turks on the battlefield.”  Unable to resist a provocative poke at his big brother, “It was a rather close call, wasn’t it, Mycroft?  The situation seems to have gotten away from you.”

“Yes, the Chanak Affair.  It did prove to have its unique points of complexity” deflects Mycroft.

“That’s as close to an admission of fallibility I’ve ever heard from you, Brother.”

“Hmm.  Well, no-one is perfect, Sherlock.  But it was more a failure of intelligence and communication that brought us to the brink of war. An incentive, perhaps, for you to assist me in my current dilemma.”

“But the crisis has been diffused, war averted, and an armistice signed.”

“An armistice, yes, but a peace treaty is not in place.  Negotiations between us, the Allies, the Greeks and the Turkish nationalists, or Kemalists, are scheduled to begin in Lausanne next week, but our interests are hardly guaranteed.  Relations between the Allies are, shall we say, strained and Mustafa Kemal has proved to be a most formidable tactician both on and off the battlefield.  He has very handily played each interested party against the other to our detriment and his success.”

“As I said, out manoeuvred.  It would seem you found in Kemal your Moriarty?”

Goaded a second time, Mycroft responds with his own provocation. “No, Sherlock.  It’s not nearly so simple as outguessing a single arch enemy.  War crimes, diseased monkeys and regime change, oil and shipping rights, and a roomful of unfortunate personalities make for a considerably more convoluted puzzle.  Kemal is but one of many players on an ever-shifting game board.”

Russell decides it’s time to interject herself into the conversation and diffuse the rising tension between the brothers.  “Mycroft, by war crimes I gather you are referring to the mass killing of Christian minorities, the Greeks and Armenians, by the Ottoman Empire during the war?”

“Yes, quite right, Mary.  More than a million killed.  It is hardly surprising the Greeks launched a new offensive against the Turks within months of the armistice between the Allies and the Ottoman Empire.”

“And the monkey?” continues Russell.  “Didn’t King Alexander of Greece succumb to an infection from a monkey bite?  That allowed Constantine to take back the throne about two years ago, wasn’t it?”

“Right again, Mary.  The repercussions from that random event are still playing out today.  You know Constantine was no friend of the Allies, especially France, during the war and that remains true today.  It was the opposition party that had Greece join the Allied effort.  The Allies returned the favour at the end of the war by supporting Greece in the peace treaty negotiations in Sèvres and sanctioning the Greek occupation of Smyrna.  That support put us in direct opposition to the emerging Turkish nationalist movement, ably led by Kemal, and inflamed by the occupation.  Between Kemal’s offers of economic enticements to the Allies and the Allies disdain for Constantine, Britain has become increasingly isolated in its support of Greece.  Only with intelligence from people like Wilson were we able to know what Kemal and the Allied Powers were up to, find common interest and maintain a very delicate balance in the region.

“Until the Chanak Affair,” says Holmes.

“Until the Chanak Affair,” repeats Mycroft.  “The Greco-Turkish war escalated, and terrible atrocities have been perpetrated by both sides.  Two months ago, the Kemalists retook Smyrna and advanced toward the allied position at Chanak, threatening the neutrality of the straits.  From our informants, we knew that France had withdrawn from Chanak and was actively negotiating with Kemal. But it was Wilson’s opinion that the French, although unwilling to oppose Kemal, were counselling him in moderation and could keep him from attacking us. Nothing was certain, and the home office was deeply divided.  Ultimately Wilson was right, Kemal occupied the neutral zone but did not engage.  We maintained our position at Chanak, and the armistice was signed in Mudanya.”

“Which brings us to the present.  You believe Wilson’s murder is related to all this and the upcoming treaty negotiations in Lausanne.”

“Yes, almost certainly.  But it is the exact nature of the connection that eludes me.  I believe it is one of the three key players at the upcoming negotiations who orchestrated the murder.  Knowing who was behind it and installing a replacement is essential if we are to have successful negotiations.”

“Three players.  From what you’ve told us, it would be France, Greece or the Turkish nationalists.  Do you have a favourite, Mycroft?” asks Russell.

“It is one of those three” replies Mycroft, “but I don’t have enough information for a favourite, as you say.”

Holmes volunteers, “It may well be the French.  It’s the most direct explanation – they discovered a leak and plugged it.  Wilson’s intelligence gave us a stronger hand at the negotiating table since we stayed in Chanak when France didn’t.  They’ll want to keep their position secret for the treaty negotiations.”

“But Kemal,” says Russell, “you described him as a master manipulator, dividing the Allies to his advantage.  And a pragmatist.  He’ll remember the original peace treaty and how the Allies pulled together in support of Greece.  This time, he would prefer confusion and guesswork between the Allies in order to capitalize on his advantage.” says Russell.

Holmes interjects, “And then there’s the Greeks.  They are in the weakest position given their military defeat.  The terms of the armistice are disastrous to them.  They could have killed the informant in retaliation for collusion between Britain and France to Greece’s abandonment.  They will want to weaken our position, even derail the peace process if it prevents the Turks from establishing an independent state. We may not be able to solve this murder, Mycroft.  Not before the conference begins at any rate. ‘Unique complexities’ is a bit of an understatement and the trail will be cold by now.  But even if we can’t solve the murder, you’ll want a new agent in place.  Who is he?” asks Holmes.

“Ah yes.  The Journalist.  I discovered him while perusing the international papers.  He writes for the Toronto Star.  He was on assignment to cover the Greco-Turkish war and arrived in Constantinople during the Chanak Affair.”

“So he’s familiar with the situation and players.  Convenient.  Does he write favourably of the British position?”  asks Russell.

“Yes, quite convenient.  And no, not particularly loyal to any side, I would say.  But I do not require fealty.  Just awareness and observation.  Look at his coverage while on assignment last month.  There are a few examples on the table there.  His writing…  he’s keenly observant of the smallest details and reports them simply.  I find his writing blithely impartial but to great emotional effect; capturing the situation in a way that exceeds the facts. The result is most striking, immediate.”

So unusual, literary even, is Mycroft’s description that Holmes and Russell both have raised eyebrows as they turn their attention to the copies of the Toronto Daily. “Here we are, from September 30th” reads Holmes, “ _British Strong Enough to Save Constantinople_.  It’s under the by-line Ernest M. Hemingway.”

“Ernest?  Is that his real name?  Doesn’t seem prophetic of a spy” quips Russell.

“You could say the same of Sherlock and detecting, Mary, and yet he’s had some modest success” reflects Mycroft with a smirk.

Ignoring Russell and Mycroft, Holmes quickly scans one edition after another.  “The format, with headings and sub-headings, suggests the editor takes him quite seriously.  It’s more a feature column than an update on the facts.   But I see what you mean, Mycroft.  The details, small and precise, very evocative.”

Russell turns her attention to the article she had picked up.  “Listen to this one, from two days ago, _Refugees from Thrace_.  It ends with a conversation with an inn-keeper and a Turkish proverb ‘It is not only the fault of the axe but of the tree as well’.  Blaming the victim and the perpetrator alike.  As you said before, atrocities on all sides.  This Hemingway, he’s a cynic.  That’s what you want in an informant?”

“A cynic.  Or a realist.  Either way, an acute observer.  I don’t need him to take sides, to find the right or wrong.  I just need him to report what he sees with deep understanding and clarity.  That way I can see all the threads, their weight, know which one to tug and which one to knot.”

“Well it looks as though you’ve found your man.  October 23: _Russia Spoiling the French Game_.  It very neatly summarizes what you just told us of the recent history between Britain, France and the Nationalists, adds in Soviet Russia and the Balkans and concludes with the implications for Britain. October 24 th: _Turks distrust Kemal Pasha_.  October 31 st, _Afghans: Trouble for Britains.”_ reads Holmes, continuing to sort through the pile.

“If he’s impartial and we cannot appeal to his higher sense of purpose, how are we to recruit him?” asks Russell.

“He is young and poor, and, I surmise, ambitious.  He’s putting a great deal of effort into his writing; developing a style.  He will want to make a name for himself and not just as a journalist.  I have had prior dealings with the Star’s managing editor, John Bone.  It should not be difficult to come to an understanding.”

Holmes and Russell finish scanning the papers while Mycroft watches.  Before long the papers find their way back in a stack on the table and the couple settle themselves comfortably back into their chairs.  Holmes breaks the silence.  “Mycroft, it’s late and Russell and I have much to discuss.”  With a pointed look to Russell he continues, “I made preparations for travel.  Just in case.”  Turning back to Mycroft.   “We could depart tomorrow should we decide to do so.  You could prepare the French police for our involvement?”

“Naturally.  The Inspector in charge, a man by the name of LeMarc, is not particularly helpful but he can be ordered to cooperate should you choose to assist in the matter.  I can also have the preliminary findings and pictures from the crime scene made available to you at police headquarters.”  Mycroft slowly raises his obese body from the chair, snubs his cigar and offers a nod to each of them.  “Mary, Sherlock, I bid you Adieu. Should you need assistance in the morning, Mr. Sosa is at your disposal.”

Russell and Holmes both remain in their seats as Mycroft leaves the room and closes the door behind him.  Holmes discretely watches his wife in the reflection off the window as she processes her thoughts for a few minutes.  He reaches for his pipe, tamps in the tobacco and lights it.

When she finally looks over to him, it’s clear she has made her decision but that she is not at ease with it.  “Schemers.  The both of you.  It’s a wonder I get to pursue my research at all.”

“Would it be better to travel abroad without a change of clothes?”

Russell decides not to answer that question and remains silent, clearly unsure whether to say what’s on her mind.  “Russell.  You’re troubled.  Not by a hiatus from Oxford and not by my role in pulling you away.  It is, I believe, my brother that concerns you.  Better to say it out loud now than to carry your ambivalence into a case.”

Rather than air her concern directly, she starts with a question.  “Holmes, why a consulting detective?  You could just as easily be an accountant.  Isn’t that Mycroft’s title?  Keeping the accounts of the British Empire, manipulating the balance for political or economic advantage.  You have the skills for it.”

“I’ve told you before, Mycroft’s mind is superior to mine.  My knowledge is local.  With a bit of chemistry.  A few languages.  His is global.  Encyclopaedic.  And his deductive reasoning faster, more astute.”

Holmes is seldom self-deprecating, and for good reason, but she lets it slide.  “He works from the armchair.  Wouldn’t Britain be well served to have you on site, deducing the motives, anticipating the conflicts.  If you wanted, you could act on the international stage, help maintain world stability.”

“Your suggesting a career change?  You know I have served in that capacity on more than one occasion.  But what Mycroft does?  I haven’t the taste for it.  I’ve no interest in brokering power between nations.”

Holmes can tell he has reassured her but knows she has more to discuss.  He remains silent and repositions himself, leaning back in his chair with legs extended, ankles crossed, eyes closed and pipe in hand, to show her he is prepared to wait and listen with his full but unobtrusive attention.

After a few minutes, Russell states quietly “He frightens me, Holmes.”

There.  She’s said it.  Holmes waits for her to elaborate.

“His power is extraordinary and his calculations cold.”  Repeating Mycroft’s words, “ _Pulling one thread, knotting the other_.  Forging an alliance or abandoning it.  All for the interests of the moment, sure to change in the next.  The ramifications are profound.  How does he reconcile the consequences?”

“On a global scale,” is Holmes’ quick response.  Holmes knows this is important.  Russell is trying to understand her own role, how she wants to behave in this world and the kind of responsibility she is willing to bear just as much as she is asking about himself and Mycroft.  He chooses his words carefully before continuing.

“Russell.  We have gifts; you, me, Mycroft, even Moriarty.  And we choose how to wield them.  Our choice is reflected in what we do and how we do it.  I have chosen to solve crimes as the world’s only consulting detective.  I have chosen to act on a human scale instead of influencing nations and political trends.  And to act personally, not as a representative of an authority such as a government or Scotland Yard.  It’s at that scale and on those terms that I can trust my abilities are equal to the challenge and I am willing to be judged.  Even then the ramifications can be terrible.  There are victims I cannot or will not help.  But those are decisions and consequences I can live with.”

“And Mycroft?”

“I would not do what Mycroft does.  But insomuch as the world needs accountants, then it’s better that Mycroft is one of them.  He has the brain for it, the mental acuity, and the moral backbone.  He understands the consequences, in great detail, and accepts the responsibility.”

Russell takes a minute to consider this and, in the end, agrees.  Sitting upright, signalling she has reconciled her thoughts, she turns to Holmes to ask of him, “And me?”

Holmes opens his eyes to look into Russell’s.  “It is your choice.  But in this instance, I believe you have already chosen.  We will go to France, together, will we not?”

“Yes.  But that is not quite what I meant.  What do you suppose I will do with my gifts, and how will I do it, Holmes?”

“Oh Russell, that’s easy,” replies Holmes with a glint in his eyes.  “You will pursue Wisdom while solving murders and saving lives.  You will do it with reckless zeal and abiding compassion.  And when you are very, very lucky, you will do it with me by your side.”

Russell matched Holmes glint with a low chuckle.  “If I’m lucky, you say?  It’s you who should be so lucky.  Remember, you had to cheat to find me.”

Holmes stands and reaches a hand to Russell to help her up from her chair.  Tucking her arm in his and escorting her to their room, he asks, “Russell? Are you challenging me to a rematch?”

“Not at all, Holmes.  I’m challenging your win.  You’ll have to do better than waylay me outside a closet to finish the game.  You’ve let your impatience get the better of you.”

“Russell, you have no idea.”


	3. Chapter 3

# Chapter 3

**19 November 1922, Paris**

The train-ferry-train trip from London’s Victoria station to Paris’ Gare du Nord had Holmes and Russell arriving rumpled and tired on a cold and dreary Sunday morning.  Russell had little more than nourishment and a hot bath on her mind as she forged ahead through the press of the disembarking crowd, until, that is, she heard Holmes call out to her. “Russell.  Wait a moment.  It appears we are to be waylaid.  That short and frantic man there by the arrivals board, is looking for us.”

Looking back over her shoulder, Russell agrees that the little man across the terminal, perched on the pedestal of a lamp post, scanning the top of the crowd, is in all likelihood looking for them; two tall arrivals.  With a heavy sigh and an awkward turnabout in the jostling crowd, Russell manoeuvres her way back to Holmes.  Together the two approach the man indirectly, angling first to the side so as to allow a moment’s observation.  Half under her breath Russell bemoans the fading likelihood of a Croque-Monsieur to sate her hunger or a stop at their hotel to change from their travel clothes and settle their possessions.  Holmes, quicker to shed the disappointment, responds with a quiet litany of observations of the man they are slowly approaching.

“Yes, definitely waylaid.  He’s with the Sūreté.  Armed with a gun, Russell, left side.  He knows how to use it but does not currently anticipate a need to do so.”

“Well, things are looking up already,” retorts Russell.

“He’s anxious to find us.  That scrap of paper in his hand has our descriptions, but he also carries some official documents, including photographs, tucked in his belt under his suit jacket.  We’re to be delivered to a crime scene, recent or possibly still active.  My weapon is packed away.  Yours?”

“Handbag.  And my knife is in my boot.  Direct to a crime scene, you think?”

“Handbags,” says Holmes wistfully. “I do wish men could carry them without drawing attention.”  Followed up with a note of exasperation.   “And yes, Russell. The documents.”

With a mental kick, Russell supplies the answer.  “Photographs.  Mycroft promised us photographs from the crime scene.  The man wouldn’t have the nuisance of carrying them if he didn’t plan to show us right away.  But why hurry, Wilson was killed days ago.  This must be a new crime with some connection to the Wilson case.  Elementary, my dear Holmes.”

“Quite.  By the make of his shoes, he’s American, but his clothes suggest permanent residence here for some years.  At least he’ll be agreeable enough; he has friends, even if he rarely sees them. I’d say he’s harried from all sides; a disapproving wife, disloyal dog, and a demanding superior. That’s been the general state of affairs for at least a year, but it has been exacerbated over the past three days.”

Russell takes a moment to study the man a bit more intently before replying.  “Okay, I’ll bite.  The respectable suit gone shabby, close cropped hair and tightly tied necktie, gnawed cuff, and 3-day old beard explain most of it.  But friends?”

“Belt buckle.  Not his usual style; it’s garish.  His wife must detest it.  And yet he wears it.  He also has a gold pen in his jacket pocket and an oversized watch, both recently acquired but completely impractical on the job. Taken together, he shows sentimental attachments outside his immediate family.  Gifts from friends.”

With equal parts respect and annoyance Russell asks, “Is that all?”

“No, but his diet preferences and idle pastimes don’t seem particularly pertinent at the moment.  Given that he has not yet seen us, I’d add that he’s as dogged as a terrier but completely inadequate for the job.  Come Russell, the game is afoot and this man needs our salvation.”

“Don’t they all?” quipped Russell.  With that the two approach the man directly and make themselves known.

Seeing them, the American jumps down from his perch and eagerly approaches with outstretched hand.   He’s obviously relieved to see them, gives each a hearty hand shake and then snatches Russell’s valise, as he proceeds to physically shepherd the two through the crowd toward the busy rue de Dunkerque.   Confirming Holmes’ deduction, LeRocque speaks to them in an unmistakably American accent but with a subtle and unusual vernacular.  “Mr. Holmes, Miss Russell, that’s how you like to be addressed, correct?  I am Lieutenant Martin LeRocque, currently of the Sūreté, originally from America, like you Miss Russell, French Canadian by birth though, which gives me the right name but the wrong French, at least as far as the Parisians are concerned.  An expat in disguise, if you will, as long as you’re not speaking to me.”

Not waiting for a response from his charges, LeRocque forges ahead with his barrage. “I’m afraid I can’t drop you off Miss Russell.  There’s been another murder, double murder that is, and Captain LeMarc wants your Mr. Holmes at the crime scene forthwith.”

“Your Captain thinks this murder is related to the Wilson case?” asks Holmes.

“That’s the working hypothesis.  Certain similarities with the crime scene is all.  No other known connection.  But it’s only just been reported.  Too early to say one way or the other.”

Holmes and Russell exchange a look.  Mycroft may be the connection, but they would need to consider carefully before revealing that.  “The victims have been identified?”

“Yes.  Monsieur and Madam Girard.  Ah, here’s the car, just where I left it.  Plenty of room for you and your possessions.  Thinking you’d be knackered after your travels, I did manage some blankets and a bit of nourishment. Bread, cheese, a thermos of coffee for us, Mr. Holmes, and some wine to ease the wait for you Miss.”

LeRocque pulls open the door and stands aside to allow Russell to climb into the back seat before piling in the luggage.  Russell, deciding to ignore both the dismissal from the investigation and the backseat invitation, launches into a barrage of her own.  “Oh, is this the new Citroen – the B2.  I’ve driven the Type A, but I understand this one has much more power.  They say it can top 70 kilometres per hour, have you tried?  I see the chassis is more or less the same.  They’re manufactured right here, aren’t they?  I wonder if we could see the factory.  It uses Taylorism, you know, like Ford, and can build an astonishing number of cars in a single day.”

Holmes, with a smile curling his lips, clambers into the back seat.  LeRocque, looking both astonished and deeply impressed, fails to answer Russell’s questions, but recovers himself enough to hand luggage back to Holmes, along with the documents pertaining to the Wilson investigation, and then skirts around the car to climb into the front seat. As LeRocque pulls into traffic, Holmes passes a blanket up to Russell to cover her legs along with the food basket to stave off her hunger.

He pulls a blanket across his own lap and, ignoring the hunk of bread Russell tore from the baguette for him, turns his attention to the large envelop from LeRocque.  Hunching over to block the wind, he removes the photographs for himself and passes the typed police reports to Russell.  Focused on the materials, Holmes and Russell pay scant attention to LeRocque’s steady flow of commentary; about the traffic, the surrounding neighbourhoods, and the best pastry at any number of shops they’d just passed, and reflexively interject the occasional acknowledgement when he pauses for breath.  Russell scans the police reports looking for any detail that might interest Holmes particularly.  For his part, Holmes carefully studies each image of the victims to gain a detailed impression of them and the manner of their deaths.

In less than 20 minutes, the car slows as they enter a posh residential neighbourhood; a quiet and well-manicured enclave of older stone homes, gardens and old growth trees, hidden away and seemingly immune to the surrounding urban frenzy.  “There’s the house now,” remarks LeRocque needlessly as they approach a charming two-story stone house nearly hidden behind a crowded scene of police cars, an ambulance and at least 10 people milling about looking official if not industrious.  LeRocque parks the car at the curb and the three climb out to enter the fray.

Noticing their arrival, a man, who Holmes quickly surmises must be Captain LeMarc, quickly approaches with a deep scowl on his face.  LeRocque turns to Russell, “You can remain here in the car, Miss Russell.  After I introduce Mr. Holmes to the team, I will find someone to convey you to your hotel.  It’s sure to be a lengthy and tedious process.”

Seeing Russell’s hot flash of anger, Holmes quickly interjects.  “LeRocque, we, both of us, are here to investigate this matter.  I can assure you that although a woman, Russell is a supremely capable detective in her own right. She is my partner in this investigation and will prove herself invaluable if treated accordingly.”

By now, Captain LeMarc has joined their threesome. Switching to impeccable French, Holmes greets the Captain.  “Captain LeMarc, allow me to introduce myself, Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, and my partner Miss Russell.  I see you’ve kept your men waiting pending our arrival.  We’ll not tax your patience any further – please escort us to the scene.”

“But Mr. Holmes,” interjects LeMarc, “the bodies.  Nothing’s been disturbed.”

“Excellent, as it should be.”

“But your wife, sir!”  exclaims the Captain.

“Partner, Captain.  Perhaps you did not understand me?  Russell is my partner in this matter.  She is not new to murder and will not be undone by the sight of a corpse.  And perhaps more to the point, she will not be deterred when there is a murderer on the loose and a case to be solved.  If you want to prevent the next, treat her as my equal and hide nothing from her.”

LeMarc looks between Russell and Holmes in disbelief, and then with a sneer, “If English detectives require their wives by their sides, then by all means.  My men have been waiting long enough, Mr. Holmes.  Fifteen minutes are my orders. A minute more and I’ll arrest the both of you for obstructing an investigation.  LeRocque!  Be sure they find their way and then get them out of here!”

Not deigning to acknowledge LeMarc’s slur with a reaction, Holmes and Russell proceed toward the house with LeRocque a few steps behind. Quietly so that only Holmes can hear, “Thank you Holmes, but I am able to speak for myself.”  To which Holmes responds, “Yes, of course, or toss him over your shoulder by way of demonstration, I daresay.  I simply thought lending my endorsement would speed things along.”

Approaching the house now, Holmes and Russell turn their full attention to the task at hand.  The front door; large, wide, heavy and tightly fitting, shows no sign of forced entry.  The door opens into a moderately sized foyer with staircase and closet underneath to the right and a centre passage leading straight back through the length of the house.  To the left is a sitting area, demarcated by the back of a sofa facing a fireplace, flanked by windows and floor to ceiling bookshelves filled with leather bound volumes.  The room is formal and obviously seldom used, but not uncomfortable.  Continuing further into the house, Holmes and Russell enter directly into the dining room, also orderly and seldom used.  To the left is a doorway into a living room with comfortable furnishings, family portraits, and a radio, clearly where the residents spend most of their leisure time.

It is here where the victims lie murdered, securely bound at the ankles and wrists and further tethered to a large sofa facing the doorway at the opposite side of the room.  The hardwood floors are worn from long use, but otherwise unremarkable, allowing Holmes and Russell to approach the bodies directly. While they conduct their examination, Russell updates Holmes on the relevant details from the police reports of the other victims.

“The prior investigation led to the speculation of two killers.  They found two different foot prints on the scene; one set quite large with worn treads, as from an old work boot.  The other set smaller, smoother, slight heel, more of a man’s dress shoe.”

“Here too, it would have to have been at least two.  The victims cooperated with their captor; the knots are neat and tight, he had plenty of time to secure the victims.”

“The manner of restraint is entirely consistent with the previous victims, Holmes, including the additional tether.  Seems redundant, overcautious, for professional killers.”

“Yes, that is noteworthy.  Not professional, or maybe they had good reason for caution.  The bindings, packaging twine?”

“Yes, identical to the others.  Appears they brought it with them.”

“We should get a sample.  The fibres may reveal their origin.  And the shots to the head?”

“Yes, nearly identical.  Fired at point blank range. Ballistics showed the Wilsons were both killed by the same gun.  It matches in calibre to the weapon used here.  The only point of difference I see is that the prior victims were shot from the right, these from the left.”

“The woman was shot before the man, but not by long.  You can see he’s slumped overtop the blood spray from the first shot.  But the blood from her wound pooled against his shoulder.  He couldn’t have been killed more than a few seconds after her.  The photos from the Wilson crime scene reveal the same thing – rapid sequential execution.  These don’t appear to have been assaulted.  The Wilsons?”

“The same.  Other than the wounds around their bindings and the fatal shot, no other injuries.” replies Russell.

“Some other coercion then,” comments Holmes to himself.

“How do you know there was coercion?  Maybe they just wanted them dead” interjects LeRocque.

“Ah, Lieutenant, lurking in the hallway.  Do be quiet,” says Holmes without looking up.

“Holmes!”

Holmes looks up at Russell, who glares at him and nods her head towards LeRocque, silently reprimanding him for his rude behaviour.  Holmes rolls his eyes and Russell continues to stare at him.  Holmes grimaces at Russell and then gives his own nod toward LeRocque, silently communicating that she can explain it to him if she must.

Russell leaves Holmes with the bodies and proceeds back across the room to speak quietly with LeRocque.  “Lieutenant, it’s quite certain that the killers wanted something from their victims.  Why bother to tie them up if your sole purpose is to kill them?  The injuries at their bindings suggests they struggled.”

“Well obviously they were trying to save themselves,” says LeRocque.

Immensely irritated by the conversation behind him, Holmes interjects, “Wrong.  If you don’t want to die, and have been made helpless, then the last thing you will do is struggle.  You will stay very, very still and try not to upset your captor.  Unless your captor has left – but then you’re not so desperate.  Or your captor gives you another reason to struggle, say torturing your spouse as an incentive for you to comply.  But there is no sign of it on them.  The execution, one right after the other, was just that.  It wasn’t used as a coercion.”

“So, the question is, what coercion did the captors use?” explains Russell gently.  “Knowing what caused the victims to struggle could shed light on why they were killed.”

Russell turns back towards the room.  She scans the area in front of the victims, thinking it’s odd there is no coffee table in front of the couch, just a small rectangular rug.  Taking a closer look, she calls out, “Holmes, this rug.  It’s been moved.  It’s not aligned with the fading on the floor.”

Holmes steps over, “Excellent, Russell”.  He slowly pulls back the corner until, about a foot back from the edge, he sees a mark.  Touching the very edge and sniffing he looks up intently back to where the bodies lie.  “Damp.  Urine.  Blood.  Something…”

“LeRocque – the dog, where’s the dog?”

“What dog?”

“Hairs on the sofa.  They have a dog – medium sized, a mongrel.  See if you can find the dog.”

“Who cares about the dog?” says LeRocque incredulously.

“They did.  Quite a lot.  Absurd, people’s love for their pets.  But this pair, they loved their dog.  Let it sleep on the couch, gnaw on the furniture.  And see how they struggled, their injuries are quite severe. They’ve bled at their bindings.  This ones’ thumb is broken, and his wrist is dislocated.  And there, the scuff marks on the floor.  They were desperate.  Perhaps their struggle was to protect their pet.  Find me that damned dog!”

Seeing that Holmes is losing his temper and that LeRocque is failing to understand, Russell takes it upon herself to free up Holmes to continue his examination undisturbed.  “Come on, Lieutenant.  There’s an injured dog to find.  His method may seem madness, but there is logic there and it’s best to assist him.”  She takes LeRocque by the arm and proceeds out through the hallway, kitchen and then finally out the back door into the garden.

The yard itself is charming.  Enclosed by hedgerows on two sides, with a tall fence along the third, it is private and cosy.  To the left is a large garden, set where it can take advantage of full sun for most of the day.  On the right, not far from the house is a patio area, sure to be comfortably shaded in the summer by the large maple further back along towards the corner.  In between, at the back of the yard is a quaint little garden shed, with a dog house to the left and rubbish bins to the right, close to a gate leading to a car park and back alleyway.

Russell and LeRocque walk into the yard to find a chain that extended from the tree as far as the middle of the yard.  On the chain is an empty collar, buckle undone but otherwise unremarkable.  Continuing back to the shed, LeRocque finds the dog house empty.  Russell continues to the other side of the shed to peer into the rubbish bins.  The first was empty, but the second appears quite full, the lid barely fitting overtop.  Lifting the lid, Russell calls for LeRocque.

“Well, I’ve found the dog.  It’s dead.  Appears its neck’s been broken.  Could you lift it out, so we can see if it was wounded?  There was blood on the floor.”

LeRocque obliges, scooping the dog into his arms.  In the process, he accidentally catches something else in his hand, pulling the bin over as he lifts the dog up and out to set on the ground behind him.  Cursing under his breath, then apologizing to Russell, he proceeds to check for other injuries on the dog.  “There’s nothing here, no wounds that I can see.”  Hearing no response from Russell, he looks over his shoulder to see Russell crouched down over the pile of trash.  He then hears a sharp intake and a low, keening moan, almost a growl.  Quickly he rises to look over her shoulder.  In his shock, he manages only “Oh my God” before running back toward the house.

Holmes hears the door slam and the pounding footsteps of LeRocque, giving him just enough time to stand and bar the door before the fool comes pounding in and over the evidence.  “LeRocque, control yourself.  I suppose you found the dog.”

LeRocque chokes out, “Yes.  No.  Your wife.  It wasn’t the dog.”  Holmes looks hard at the man, taking in his stricken expression.

“Russell?” demands Holmes, to which he gets little more than a vague wave of the arm and a wide, blank stare.  Pushing the man down hard on his shoulders he commands, “Sit”, and then barrels out of the house into the back yard.  He sees her there, coat off, kneeling to lean over a mound on the ground.  Holmes moves quickly across the yard in long strides, arriving at Russell’s side unnoticed.  Quickly he scans the object holding Russell’s attention; a child, female, 6 years old, maybe 7, dead.  She is bloody, dirty, naked but for an undershirt, and appears to have been sexually assaulted.  Russell, having placed her coat on the ground and gathered the poor broken bundle onto it, is now using her warm hands to gently wipe the cold, sticky blood and dirt from her as she tucks the coat around her.

Holmes acts quickly.  With a sharp bark he says, “Russell”.  Russell starts, whipping her head around to look up at him.  Not wasting a moment, Holmes squats part way between Russell and the child, pivoting his body to face Russell and block her view.  Looking into her eyes, he firmly grasps her wrists, presses her palms together and then, to free up his left hand, wraps the fingers of his right hand around both her wrists to hold them firmly in place.   Breaking his gaze, he uses his free hand to lift and turn Russell so that her back is to the child and to him.  Maintaining the hold on her wrists, with his arm wrapped across her body, he presses against her to slowly move toward the house.

Realizing that Holmes is moving her away from the child, she begins to struggle against his firm grip.  Holmes speaks directly into her ear, “She can’t feel it, Russ.  She can’t feel the cold.  Her suffering is over.”  Russell struggles a moment more and then goes limp, emitting a low, deep, groan.  After a short pause, Holmes continues to press her into motion.

LeRocque just now appears in the doorway.  Before he can take a single step into the yard Holmes calls out harshly.  “Stay where you are.  We need to secure the area.  Be absolutely sure no-one enters the yard until I’ve completed my examination.  Alert the team there is another body but do not let anyone approach until I say so.”

Russell, hearing Holmes’ commands, begins again to struggle against him.  Holmes refuses to loosen his grip even as Russell’s struggle becomes more urgent.  In frustration, she hisses “Let me go, I’m going to be sick.”  Instead of releasing her, he practically lifts her to take three quick strides to the patio.  Feeling her tense for the retch, he braces his body, taking a wide stance and bending his knee to help support her weight as she doubles over to vomit on the paving stones, never releasing his grip.

They stay like this, the one folded over the other, for a minute while Russell’s heaving subsides.  She spits once, twice and tries, unsuccessfully to lift her hands to her face to wipe her mouth and the hair from her eyes.  Slowly Holmes raises both of them back into an upright position, clamped tight, moving as one body.  She takes a few calming breaths, and then in a slow, steady voice, she says, “Holmes, you can unhand me now.”

Holmes, standing behind her, his head at her shoulder, quietly responds, “I can’t, Russell.  Your hands.  They’ve touched the body.  We need to take samples.”

With horror, Russell realizes what she’s done.  She disturbed the scene of a crime.  Her useless ministrations wiped away the evidence.  With a rush, the words come spilling out of her.  “Oh my God, Holmes, what have I done?  We, we found the dog in the bin.  It was dead but there was no blood.  It wasn’t the dog.  The bin had spilled over and I saw a scrap of cloth, it looked blood stained.  I unwrapped it to find… to find.  Oh god, Holmes.  Dead.  Tortured.  Raped.”

Russell shudders, takes a few deep breaths.  “Holmes, I touched her.  There was blood and other, you know… cold, sticky, and things, fibres stuck to her. I tried to wipe away… I wanted to help her.  Holmes, I am so sorry.  I thought I was ready.”

Whispering quiet shushing sounds into her ear, Holmes tries to calm her.  “Russell, you were as ready as anyone can be, which is not at all for something so heinous.  Quiet now.  The evidence is not lost.  We can take samples from your hands and you can tell me exactly what you saw.”

Maintaining their upright position, eyes forward, Russell speaks to the wall of the yard as if to the wall of a confessional. “Oh Holmes, I’ve failed you.”

“No, Russ.  I.  It was my mistake.  I should have realized – only something truly horrific could have inspired such drastic measures from our victims; they would have ripped off their own hands to come to that child’s aid.  If there was failure here, it was mine.”

With Russell still pressed against him, his arms folded around her, Holmes slowly releases Russell’s hands, brushes her hair away from her face and wipes her mouth with the back of his hand.  The two slowly take a step apart and turn back toward the yard, house and LeRocque, who is standing in the doorway, barricading anyone from coming out.  Holmes, his voice firm and efficient as he takes command of the situation, calls to the Lieutenant. “LeRocque, my wife, take her to the team for samples.  I want soil, fibres, even the blood for typing.  Anything on her hands could be of importance.  They’ll need her finger prints too, for comparison.  Afterward, she’ll need a car or someone to take her.”

Russell, her hands held out in front of her, doesn’t budge.  “Holmes.”

Holmes’ eyes have already started scanning the yard while he continues.  “Russell, you’ll need a new coat, I’m afraid.  I’m sure one of these people can advise you of a shop near the hotel to find one.”

Again, Russell stands her ground, lengthening to her full height, shoulders back, chin forward.  “Holmes.”

Holmes’ attention is on the scene before him, imagining how events must have unfolded.  He says distractedly, “We can go over what you saw at the hotel tonight, Russ, once you’ve had a chance to recover.”

“Holmes.”  A pause, and then quietly but clearly, “I’ll not be dismissed.”

With that, Holmes turns sharply to Russell, his attention now fully back on her.  He takes in her defiant stance and looks directly in her eyes.  He sees her humiliation and her determination.

“Russell, there’s no shame here.  You’ve nothing to prove to me.”

Their eyes still locked, Holmes can see the desperation in her eyes as she says, “Holmes. I can help.”

After a considering pause, “You’re quite right.”  Nudging Russell lightly, they move across the patio towards the house and the waiting Lieutenant.  “LeRocque.  This child didn’t belong here – no children lived in this house and from her hands, she’s not a serving girl.  Someone must be missing her.”   Turning to his wife, “Russell, LeRocque can determine whether anything has been learned from the neighbours while your hands are being sampled.  It’s unlikely there were witnesses, LeRocque, but do check to be sure procedure has been followed. Russell, you had a better look at her than LeRocque.  Once you have your hands back, you two can go to the police station to search any reports of missing children.  I’ll complete my study of the scene inside and out and contact Mycroft.  We’ll meet back at the hotel.”

“I could be useful to you here, Holmes.  Another pair of eyes.”

“No, Russell.  If we’re to understand this case, it’s imperative the child be identified.  We must know whether the assault on her was purely for effect or if she’s central to this crime?  While you two learn what you can about the child, I’ll learn what I can from here and follow any leads from Mycroft.”  Holmes turns to LeRocque, “Lieutenant, I advise you to follow Russell’s lead.  Failure to do so will only hinder this investigation with potentially tragic consequence.  And LeRocque, watch her back.  We don’t know what we’re dealing with here.”  With that he proceeds toward the back of the yard, calling without looking back, “Russell, start with a coat.”

Russell and LeRocque do as they’re told.  With an agreement to reconnoitre within 30 minutes, Russell submits her hands to examination while LeRocque proceeds to gather whatever information was gleaned from neighbours.  Russell watches carefully as the technician takes samples, giving occasional instruction to ensure every possible bit of evidence is taken.  Otherwise almost no words pass between Russell and any of the officials at the scene.  She can’t help but wonder if they have nothing to say to someone who would disturb the evidence so egregiously. Coupled with her guilt, she feels so empty, body and soul. And hungry, not for food, the very thought turns her stomach, but hungry for understanding.  The impossibility of what she saw, that someone could perpetrate such evil, defies comprehension.  Intellectually she’s not naive, she has read of such crimes, but she cannot resolve what she knows of herself, what it is to be human, and that kind of depravity.

As the technician completes his work, Russell wrangles her thoughts and feelings into a box for later and concentrates on breathing slowly and deeply to gather her strength for the coming hours.  Before long LeRocque returns with the news that few neighbours were home and none had any information to offer. The two head immediately to the car for the trip to 36 Quai des Orfevres, the headquarters for the criminal investigation arm of the Judicial Police, located in the heart of the city on Ile de la Cite.

As soon as they are seated in the car, LeRocque launches right back into his voluble recitation about, as far as Russell can tell, anything that happens to occur to him.  She imagines Holmes would make a game of guessing the next topic of conversation simply by noting what happens to capture his notice.  The current train of thought follows from all the construction impeding their way.  From there it progressed quickly to a history lesson about the Thiers Wall, a now obsolete fortification that was built 60 years prior to surrounded the city, but that is being demolished with plans to replace it with desperately needed low income housing.  Which then brought him to other government efforts at post war recovery, such as establishing crèches, day care centres, in response to the high percentage of women in the workforce.

Russell, shivering under the traveling blanket, realizes she had better redirect his thoughts to her more immediate requirements.  She manages to interrupt him long enough to comment that he had missed his calling as tour guide and enquires whether his vast knowledge included a shop where she could procure a coat.  He quickly warms to this new topic; clothiers, fashion and where his wife prefers to shop, but also, to Russell’s relief, stops along the curb outside a storefront displaying outdoor garments.  While LeRocque remains outside, leaning against the car to smoke a cigarette, Russell darts into the warmth of the shop.

In less than ten minutes Russell is back at the car, clothed in a high quality if not stylish dark grey woollen coat, long enough for her stature and with numerous pockets, including an interior one in which to conceal her firearm.  LeRocque, onto his second cigarette by now, throws it to the ground to snuff it out under his foot, as they quickly climb back into the car and ease into the street crowded with people, bicycles, cars, electric tramways, and omnibuses.  Inspired no doubt by the busy street, LeRocque launches into a commentary about the STCRP, the company in charge of Parisian surface transport, the future of trams versus motorbuses, and his first experience of a tri-colour traffic light, all the while moving swiftly through the mid-morning traffic.

As they cross the Seine via the Pont Neuf onto the Ile de la Cite, Russell marvels at how thoroughly removed she is from that horrible discovery just an hour previously.  In that short time, she has acquired not only a new coat and a vast wealth of random knowledge, but also regained her equanimity.  She is accustomed to relying on Holmes; his pillar like stature and strength, his unflinching certainty, and his carefully doled out words of wisdom, to centre and support her. But it turns out that short, talkative, personable LeRocque was just what she needed to steady herself, find her core and regain her bearings.  He seems to her remarkably non-judgmental, willing to accept her and her role in this case despite her earlier show of weakness.  That small act of kindness, his acceptance, has allowed her to accept herself, if not fully forgive, and move on to the task at hand.  She makes a mental note to pay attention to this man LeRocque, there may be more depth to him than first impressions would suggest.

The task before them was as imposing as the building itself.  The 36 is immense and formidable.  Four stories with a mansard-style roof, it seems even taller as it sits monolith-like above the Seine.  LeRocque parked the car and the two passed on foot through a dark tunnel into the central courtyard, entering the building and climbing the steps to the criminal investigations department. Tucked in a back corner, Russell and LeRocque pore over reports of missing children for over three hours but find none that resemble the murdered child.

LeRocque, leaning back, looking straight up at the ceiling and running his hands through his hair, says with quiet defeat, “It’s a dead-end, Miss Russell. None of these lost souls fit that poor child we saw.”  After a pause he continues as if to himself, “I’m half grateful.”

Russell is stilled by that simple revelation, once again feeling that there is a sensitivity to this man well hidden behind his garrulous manner. He looks back down to the papers on the desk, starts to straighten them and glances over to Russell.  He’s startled to see her staring at him, questioningly.  Looking down again, “Sorry, foolish thing to say.”  A pause and then an explanation.  “Knowing the name, it makes it real, her real, the family, their loss.  It makes it, the horror, all the more difficult to bear.” He looks down and away for a moment, shaking his head, surprised at himself perhaps, for revealing something so true.

Russell prompts him to continue.  “Half grateful?”

LeRocque returns his gaze to her for a moment, thoughtful.  “You don’t miss much, do you, Miss Russell?  Yes, just half grateful.  It’s a survival skill, you know, from the war I suppose, barricading the senses, not wanting to know too much.  But its usefulness is limited; enough to get you through in the moment, maybe, but not enough to move you forward.”

“You were a soldier, Mr. LeRocque, here in France?”

“What? Oh. No, not as such.  I was an ambulance driver with the Red Cross, to the north and east of here; Picardie, Champagne.  It was enough though, what I saw.  How people cope with it, the violence and fear and deprivation and loss.  And not just the soldiers, you know.  Everyone.  Just trying to survive.  The ones who grow cold, turn a blind eye, they lose their compassion, their humanity.  They lose the point of it.  They don’t really survive at all, do they?”

He looks up at Russell, the expectation of an answer in his face, before he catches himself.  Chagrined by speaking so earnestly and openly, he shakes his head.  “Sorry, being foolish again.  That girl, she’s thrown me for a bit of a loop, she has.”  Getting no comment from Russell, he skips back to her earlier question.  “So yes, half grateful.  The other half wants to know her name, everything about her, how she came to be there, whatever it takes to solve this crime.  I’ll not have her death go unpunished. It’s the most I can do for her but it’s the least I can do for the next one.”

Russell gives him a long, pensive look “Not foolish, Mr. LeRocque, Martin, if I may call you that. Wise.  You have reminded me that compassion is our strength, not our weakness, and for that, I am grateful.  Thank you.  And please, call me Mary.  You know, you remind me of my husband.”

LeRocque looks at her blankly for a moment, clearly at a rare loss for words.  But then with a smile, “Mary, then.  And please, Martin suits me just fine.”  Letting the moment pass undisturbed, Russell removes her glasses and wearily rubs her eyes with her fists.  In an effort to turn their attention back to the task at hand she comments, “Surely a missing child wouldn’t go unnoticed for long.”

“It’s possible it just hasn’t been reported yet. A child left alone during the workday, or at a crèche and assumed to be under someone else’s care. It may not be known she’s missing.”

“If that’s the case, it’s just a waiting game and I’d rather not sit idle and trust to that if another explanation is possible.  What if she’s been missing for a while but it hasn’t been reported?”

“You mean, someone chose not to report it?  It’s certainly possible. Things may be looking up lately but there are still plenty unable to manage a child; the aftermath, you know, mental illness, poverty, addiction. To them a child gone missing is one less burden.  Those children aren’t so much found as caught.  That could take days, weeks, maybe never.  And it doesn’t help us here.  We have the child and we know she wasn’t found in time.”

“Or maybe it’s not been reported because they can’t, because they’ve been captured, or killed.  What about missing adults or recent deaths or homicides.”

“Plenty of missing people from the war of course, but records have been improving.  If an adult were reported missing we’d know who they were and probably whether a child was involved.  But deaths, plenty start unidentified.  We’d know where they were found or who found them and start our investigation from there.”

“A trip to the morgue then?” says Russell.

“Followed by a bite of food, don’t you think?  I’m hungry but you must be famished.  There’s a café around the corner from the morgue – they have an excellent quiche Loraine, made with the best gruyere to be had in the city, and good, extra strong coffee.”

“You are quite the connoisseur of Paris’ comestibles, Martin.  A most commendable quality.  Holmes finds low level starvation keeps his mind keen and focused.  I however find a hearty stew most effective.  Please, lead the way.”


	4. Chapter 4

# Chapter 4

**Evening, 19 November 1922**

Alarmed but focused, LeRocque drives through the streets of Paris as if it were 1918 and he were behind the wheel of his ambulance.  He arrives at the 36, launches from the car, tears through the courtyard and up the stairs to the 4th floor where the Sūreté has its offices.

“Holmes, thank God you’re here.  I’ve lost her.”

Holmes is seated at a desk, eyes closed, chin resting on his steepled fingers, organizing his thoughts and compiling possible lines of inquiry.  He has been sitting just so for almost an hour, mentally sifting and sorting the facts from his day long inquiries, first at the crime scene, expanded to include the yard and back alleyway, then the surrounding neighbourhood, Mr. Girard’s place of work, the laboratory (to see for himself the samples taken from the crime scene), and finally at police headquarters, where he’d placed a lengthy telephone call to Mycroft.  Other than an offer of coffee and food, both of which sit cold and untouched on the table, he has been left blessedly alone with his thoughts.  Until now, that is, with the thunderous and out of breath arrival of the Lieutenant. At LeRocque’s announcement, he opens his eyes, but remains motionless, looking straight ahead through the window to Paris at night, a sea of lights crisscrossed by the Seine and canals.  He responds, “Lost her?  Russell?  More likely she abandoned you.”

“Yes, yes, that’s right.  But I’m worried.  She left a note.  ‘ _Tell Holmes_ ’.”

“Tell me?  Tell me what?” asks Holmes mildly, paying only half attention.

“I don’t know.  That’s all I found in her bag – just a note saying, ‘ _Tell Holmes_ ’.”

Holmes drops his hands to the table and turns to look at LeRocque directly.  He notes that the Lieutenant appears, once again, frantic and a bit lost. Questioning LeRocque’s ability to accurately evaluate the urgency of a situation, but not yet willing to discount the man’s evident distress, he raises an eyebrow and states his question, “Her bag.”

LeRocque, realizing he just told the Great Detective that he’s been rifling through his wife’s handbag, stammers, “Yes, er, she left it in the bathroom.”

Holmes rises to his feet, straightens to his full height, and looks down his nose at LeRocque. “In the bathroom.”

LeRocque knows he’s acting imbecilic but can’t seem to help himself.  He’s acutely aware that he spent the better part of the day, including a meal out at a café, with this imposing man’s wife.  Furthermore, he had been surprised and charmed by the young, strong, smart and thoughtful woman.  She had been utterly disarming in her open and honest manner with him and they’d seemed to fall into the easy familiarity of long-time friends.  Feeling the need to explain himself to Holmes, that there had been nothing untoward in his actions, he tries to explain.  “We were done in after the morgue and, well, you can imagine, Mary was famished, and”

Frustrated at the Lieutenant’s inability to succinctly convey the necessary information, Holmes fills in the blanks. “LeRocque, you are telling me that you”, pausing here to say very precisely, “and _Mary_ ,” another pause, “were in a café.”  Holmes notes LeRocque’s blanch as the Lieutenant realizes that he’d used Miss Russell’s first name, and knows he’s achieved the desired effect of intimidation.  Holmes continues, “She excused herself to the lavatory and failed to reappear.  After some ridiculously long period of time, especially since she took her coat and handbag with her…  She did purchase a coat, correct?”

Relieved that he can reassure Holmes that he had done right by Miss Russell, LeRocque says “Yes, yes, of course, first off, on the way to headquarters.”

“So, after a ridiculously long period of time, during which you failed to suspect her intention to leave, you overcame your reticence and went to investigate, probably enlisting the aid of a woman to enter the hallowed sanctuary.  To your astonishment, the woman returned to report the room was empty but that she found a handbag. Unsure that the handbag belonged to Russell, even though you had spent most of the day with her, you searched the contents to find a note with the words ‘ _Tell Holmes_ ’.  Let me see it.”

LeRocque pulls the crumpled note from his trouser pocket and hands it to Holmes.  Snatching the note from LeRocque with irritation, Holmes growls, “The bag, LeRocque.  Let me see the bag.”

Feeling like a child called before the school principal, LeRocque stammers “It’s, it’s in the car.”

Holmes takes a cursory glance at the note to confirm the hurried scrawl is indeed Russell’s before looking back to LeRocque.  The two men stand looking at each other, LeRocque with wide-eyed vacancy and Holmes with obvious impatience.  Seeing that LeRocque is rooted in place, Holmes silently gestures with his arm toward the doorway, jolting the Lieutenant into action.  LeRocque bounds down the stairs and exits to the car park with Holmes close on his heels.  At the car, Holmes snatches the bag, dumps the contents to the car seat, and notes the absence of hairpins, cash and firearm, but finds no other missive or clue.

Now convinced of the urgency to locate Russell, Holmes commands, “Take me there.”

Without a word, LeRocque springs around the car and into the driver seat, setting the car in motion practically before Holmes has time to scrape Russell’s items back into the bag, climb in, and close the door.  During the ride, Holmes learns the details of LeRocque and Russell’s movements since they had left him at the crime scene.  LeRocque explains how he and Russell searched the missing child reports to no avail and then proceeded to the city morgue in search of a potential guardian of the murdered child among the unidentified bodies. There, they found two candidates, both women between 25-35 years of age, who bore the physical signs of prior childbirth.  One, according to the reports on file, had been struck by a motor lorry as she walked along a busy shop-lined street of a working-class neighbourhood.  The other, who had died from a traumatic blow to the head, had been found in the Cimetiere de Montmartre, although she had not died there.  Once Russell concluded her inspection of the bodies at the morgue, she and the Lieutenant proceeded to a nearby café to get something to eat while they decided on next steps.  It was just after they had finished eating that Russell disappeared and LeRocque rushed to headquarters to find Holmes.

LeRocque drives skillfully and aggressively while responding clearly and concisely to Holmes’ detailed questions about their movements during the afternoon and what Russell’s inspection of the bodies in the morgue had revealed.  Holmes is impressed with this new and improved version of the Lieutenant and, suspecting that the policeman is drawing on prior experience and professional training, concludes that LeRocque had been an ambulance driver during the war.  As LeRocque pulls the car to the curb in front of the morgue, but before they disembark, Holmes asks one final question.  “Have you ever done any playacting, Lieutenant?  Undercover? In school, perhaps?”

Shocked, LeRocque looks at Holmes incredulously.  “Do you know, Mar…, Miss Russell, asked me the very same thing while we were eating.”

“And?”

“What? Oh, no. Never went in for that sort of thing and LeMarc thinks despite my French being fluent, my American accent won’t do.”

“Lieutenant, I fear Russell has put herself in considerable danger.  She’s armed and formidable, but she has ventured, alone, into areas with which she has little prior experience.  It’s essential we find her.”

“What?  Where has she gone?”

“Pigalle.”

LeRocque blanches.  “You can’t be serious?  Alone?  Now?  In the dark?  But why?”

“Think about it!  The murder of the Girards was a premeditated crime. The murderer’s plan required a child, possibly any child or maybe that specific one.  If you wish to snatch a child, why would you choose a busy street or rely on a chance opportunity, say a passing lorry, to dispatch the guardian?  Too random, it just doesn’t make sense.  But the second woman in the morgue had been quickly killed and dumped.  That’s a plausible lead.  From what you told me of the cadaver – thin, abused, the markings of habitual drug use, it suggests a woman living on the margins of society, vulnerable and not quickly missed.  The Cimetiere is located near one of the more notorious neighbourhoods in Paris.  Russell knows we need to confirm that the murdered child is this woman’s daughter, and if so, everything about her and her death.  That kind of inquiry, where the potential informants are pimps or drug dealers, is best achieved in disguise and at night.  Russell is quite accomplished at this, but you, Lieutenant, have no experience.  Hence Pigalle, now, alone, in the dark.”

“And Miss Russell figured all that out?

“And more, no doubt.  She was confident enough in her deduction to warrant the risk.”  Silently, Holmes wonders whether Russell’s inexperience, self-reproach and need to redeem herself may have skewed her assessment, but there is nothing he can do about that now except find her.  Out loud to LeRocque he continues, “She knows I would come looking for her after speaking with you.  She’s depending on it.”

With that LeRocque and Holmes climb out of the car.  While LeRocque starts in the direction of the morgue, Holmes looks about him in every direction?  “Where’s the café?”

“What? Oh, around the corner there.”  After a confused pause he continues, “I thought you would want to examine the women’s bodies for yourself?”

With an exasperated shake of the head, Holmes says, “Of course not.  We can safely trust in Russell’s observations, but not in yours, so we will begin our search at the café.”  With the focused gleam of a hound on the scent, Holmes launches in the direction of the café, calling over his shoulder, “We need to see if Russell left any other clues.”

Rounding the corner, Holmes heads directly into the café with LeRocque close behind.  “Where did you sit?” demands Holmes.  LeRocque points out the table, and Holmes, completely ignoring the couple now sitting there (who are too dumbfounded to protest), steps to the table, scans its surface, leans over to run his fingers along the underside of the table’s edges, and crouches down for a cursory look underneath.  Just as abruptly, he leaves the table and heads to the back of the café where the lavatory is located.  With a perfunctory knock, and quick announcement in French, “Pardon, cleaning” he enters the currently empty room.  A scuff mark on the wall beneath a small awning window indicates how Russell escaped.  Taking no more than 20 seconds to scan the remainder of the room, he leaves the café to pick up the trail outside the window.

Outside he sees the mark of Russell’s boot in the dirt below the window, but little more.  Knowing Russell’s knowledge of the city is limited and that she wouldn’t want to arouse attention, he surmises that she would have taken a cab to a tourist landmark near where she would commence her inquiry.  Turning to LeRocque, who has been silently watching from a discrete distance, Holmes quickly considers the relative advantage of an armed accomplice with local knowledge and a car, over the inevitable encumbrance the Lieutenant would bring.

“Lieutenant, we can pick up the trail at the Moulin Rouge.”  Holmes chooses to ignore yet another look of utter bewilderment from LeRocque.  To his credit, the Lieutenant simply accepts Holmes statement and obediently plays the part of driver.  Back in the car, Holmes explains to LeRocque what would be required of him.

“You’re going to need to do a bit of play acting, Lieutenant. We have no costumes and I cannot train you in the finer points of stagecraft, so we will present ourselves in a manner that won’t arouse suspicion, but that is as close to truth as possible.  In your case, you will play the part of a young American tourist behaving poorly; generally good natured but loud, completely unaware of his own stupidity, drunk and looking for the entertainments of Paris’ underbelly.”

“Loud and stupid” repeats LeRocque with a grimace, “Think that highly of me, do you?”

“Don’t worry, Lieutenant.  There are very few people of whom I have a high regard.”  After driving for a few moments in silence, Holmes attempts a softening of tone before continuing with his instructions.  “It’s just a characterization, Lieutenant. It’s nothing to do with the man underneath.  You have spent some time with my wife.  The fact that she has granted you the intimacy of the use of her first name counts in your favour.”

“I’d have thought that would rather count against me,” replies LeRocque.

“What, jealousy?  A foolish sentiment of the pathologically insecure. No-one could accuse me of a lack of confidence.  Besides, I trust her judgement.”

“Some would say trust is just as foolish.” says LeRocque provocatively.

“Blind trust, yes. But trust in one who’s worthy of it shows wisdom, not weakness.  I am not blind. I observe. Even setting Russell’s opinion aside, I’ve seen enough to know goodness and depth lie hidden beneath your incessant blather.”

To that unexpected and veiled compliment, LeRocque reacts with raised brows and a quiet ‘Huh’, but otherwise keeps his eyes on the road.  Clearing his throat, Holmes continues.  “Most people don’t look past first impressions, so we’ll exaggerate the superficial for our purpose; hence loud and stupid, or more precisely, oblivious. It’s easiest if you pretend to be someone you know, perhaps yourself as a younger man, or some unruly tourist you arrested for drugs or prostitution.  Try not to speak, but if you do, speak in English or at most heavily accented French. We’ll scrape up your knuckles and splash your coat in spirits.  You’ll have to remove your watch, pen, hat and holster –  anything identifying you as Sūreté. Keep the belt buckle though, it’s perfect.”

“Lenny.  That’s who I’ll be,” answers LeRocque.  “It was his buckle.  Best man you could ever know, if not the best behaved.  My Mama used to say he was ‘A sinner with the soul of a saint’ and she loved him for it despite all the trouble he caused.”  He shakes his head and continues thoughtfully, “Stupid in his own way, I suppose.  Stupid enough to get himself killed saving me.”

Holmes watches LeRocque quietly as he continues to negotiate the car through the mayhem of Paris traffic.  “In my experience, LeRocque, a man who’s willing to give up his life for another is usually a pretty good judge of character.  In the case of your man Lenny, who seems to have lived his life with exuberance, that’s high praise indeed.”

LeRocque keeps his eyes on the road, but a smile curls the corners of his mouth.  “You might just be worthy of your wife, Mr. Holmes.”   This time it was Holmes’ chance to smile.  “Just.  But not if we don’t find her quickly.”  Turning his attention back to business, “Your gun, LeRocque, it’ll mark you as police.  You’ll have to keep it well hidden but easily accessible.”

“And what about you, Mr. Holmes.  Who will you be?”

“An old and cunning street thug.  I’ve spotted you as an easy mark and am sticking with you just long enough to relieve you of your money and throw you to the wolves.  Once we find Russell, it’s imperative that you let us do the talking and follow our lead.  We’ve put on acts like this many times before.”

LeRocque pulls to the curb outside a dark and coarse looking club about a block from the Moulin Rouge.  While LeRocque works on changing his appearance, Holmes orders two double drinks from the bar and brings them back out to the curb.  He hands one drink to LeRocque, sticks his fingers in it and then flicks them at LeRocque’s coat, face and hair.  “Go ahead, drink up, it’ll put you in the mood.”    LeRocque looks from Holmes to the ¾ full tumbler he just stuck his fingers in and back again, shrugs, and knocks it back in two great gulps and a shudder.  Holmes chuckles, takes a single gulp from his own glass, and then proceeds to splash the remainder on LeRocque’s trousers and shoes.

“What now?”

“Now we pick up the trail.  Where’s the Cimetiere from here?  She knows I’ll be looking for her and for once she’ll make it easy.  This time she wants to be found.”

Pointing in the direction they need to go, LeRocque says half under his breath, “Sounds like there’s a story there.”

Holmes responds with a grunt, nothing more, and crosses the street in the opposite direction the Lieutenant had indicated.  Before LeRocque can call out his question, Holmes holds his hand up, first with 5 fingers spread and then just his pointer finger indicating quite clearly to LeRocque that he is supposed to stop, shut-up, and wait a moment.  Holmes reaches the other side of the street, spins around and surveys the scene in a methodical 180-degree scan.  He then crosses back across the street, walks right past the waiting Lieutenant until he reaches the first street lamp.  He crouches down, picks up a hairpin and shows it to LeRocque.  “Gretel’s bread crumbs.  Look sharp.”

After another two blocks, Holmes waits for LeRocque to draw alongside him, and points to a vagrant sitting just inside an alleyway across the street, and quietly asks, “That coat, do you recognize it?   Could it be the one Russell purchased?”

“What? Oh, I don’t know.  Maybe.  But…”

“Russell needs a disguise.  Her new coat would be like a beacon in this neighbourhood.”

The two cross the street to the alley.  Holmes approaches the vagrant but waves LeRocque off toward the street lamp.  Holmes attempts to speak with the vagrant, a woman, bundled from head to toe in dirty, smelly rags, except for one high quality grey woollen coat, but she quickly rises and scurries away down the alley, the coat tightly clamped around her.  LeRocque immediately spots a hairpin beneath the street light, this one bent and dirty.   He calls over to Holmes who quickly comes over, “A hairpin.  But by the look of it, probably not hers.”

Holmes reaches down to pick it up with his handkerchief.  “Wrong.  ‘ _By the look of it_ ’” he mimics, “most assuredly hers and a clue to the role she has assumed.  Look at the tip, it has blood on it.  I’ll wager Russell used it to make marks on her arm, tracks, as if she’s been injecting.  And there, those grooves in the dirt.  She’s making herself look dirty or bruised, matching her appearance to the corpse you examined.  She’s acting a friend or sister to the deceased; looking for her.  What do you know of the establishments in this area?  We’re looking for a place a prostitute or addict could do her business.”

“You mean a legal brothel, a ‘maisons de tolerance’?  Not around here.”

“Something meaner than that, I should think.”

“A maisons d’abattage? A ‘slaughterhouse’ like Le Moulin Galant? They’re plenty mean, serving the everyman.”

“They’re more like factories, aren’t they, shift workers?  I think smaller.  And catering to addicts.  Remember the woman’s body had the markings of a user.”

“There’s more than one den around here to get all the services you mention.  Not as well marked.  Clustered within a few blocks between us and the Cimetiere.”

“Russell would have targeted the street corner prostitutes for information.  They’re the eyes on the street.  As long as she can convince them she’s not interested in stealing their marks, they would make excellent informants. But with us, they’ll be all business.  And information is just as costly as their other wares.  We’ll continue until we’re approached; your job is to be loud and drunk. Too drunk to negotiate for their services yourself.  I’ll do the talking.  The act starts now.”

With that, Holmes throws his arm across LeRocque’s shoulders and, clutching tightly, causes the two of them to stagger slowly down the street as if drunk.  He calls out in broken English, with enough French mixed in to be understandable to the locals “Lenny, I’m telling you, this is better than Le Moulin Galant.  Beautiful women, ready and willing, and for as long as you want.  You leave it to me.”  LeRocque, warming to the act and remembering his friend Lenny, starts to bellow the words from one of the classic songs from Mademoiselle Mistinguett, ‘Mon Homme’.”

Just a block down and around the corner, the men see three ladies of the evening. “Ah, a pretty voice and a lot of leg.  If that’s your taste, it’s your lucky day.”  Holmes makes a scene of propping LeRocque against a building across the street from the women as if his comrade couldn’t manage without support.  He says quietly to LeRocque, “Stay.  Sing.”  LeRocque leans back against the building and takes up another song, ‘Ca c’est Paris’, while Holmes stumbles off the curb and approaches the women.  Staggering slightly as he walks, Holmes calls out churlishly over his shoulder so all can hear, “Just you wait Lenny, while I see if these tarts are sweet enough for you.”

LeRocque can’t hear what Holmes says to them but sees him exchange banter with the women and even open what little protection from the cold they wear as if assessing their wares.  Awfully convincing, thinks LeRocque.  After just a minute or so, Holmes pulls one whore in close under his coat and calls over to Lenny with a licentious leer, “Eh Lenny, this one looks promising.  I just need a bite to be sure.”  To laughter and catcalls from the other women, Holmes leads her away and out of earshot, into the dark of a recessed doorway, blocking the view of her and what they’re doing behind his great coat.  The remaining prostitutes now turn their attention to LeRocque, beckoning him over to get some of what his mate’s up to.  LeRocque responds by playing up his drunken act, leaning against a building and listing a bit to the side, picking up bits of another song as if in serenade, but keeping his distance as instructed.

Within five minutes, Holmes returns the whore to her co-workers, handing her a wad of bills and buttoning his trousers as he walks.  Continuing on towards LeRocque, he again calls out in the broken English-French hybrid, loud enough for all to hear, “Ah, she’s a nice, warm titbit, she is, Lenny, but the room’s a bit cold.  Better we continue on for a higher-class establishment.”  Offended at the slight, or more likely, the loss of business, the whores turn harsh and vulgar.  Ignoring their insults, Holmes takes LeRocque back by the shoulder and the two continue their unsteady way down the block and around a corner.

As soon as they are out of sight LeRocque rounds on Holmes in anger, fists clenched, “Tell me you didn’t just screw that woman. I’ll not have Mary disrespected that way.”

To that Holmes responds with a loud bark of laughter.  “I’m glad you found my performance so convincing.”  LeRocque continues to glare at him with suspicion.  “Don’t be daft, LeRocque.  Information, nothing more.  Your concern for Russell is admirable, but what of those women?  Have you no respect or compassion for them?  No one chooses such a life.  They are merely surviving the best they can.  I’d not take advantage of their desperation any more than I’d dishonour Russell.”

Feeling equal parts relieved and chagrined, LeRocque gives a curt nod and moves on.  “Information then, what did you learn?”

“A great deal, it turns out.  That particular Madam has not seen Russell.  Business, it seems, has been good.  She did, however, offer that a truly desperate woman might find her way to Le Choc. This is no maisons de tolerance, LeRocque, or even a maisons d’abattage.  This kind of ‘slaughterhouse’ lives up to its name, at least for the women that end up there.  They are little more than slaves – a bite to eat, a drug fix to keep their addiction raging, in trade for their bodies.”

“Le Choc. The Knock. Descriptive. And you think the woman, at the morgue, was that desperate?”

“Not enough information to be sure, but it follows.  She was an addict.  A mother trying to feed her child would have been vulnerable to a place like that.  At least that’s what Russell would have thought, not willing to accept a mother could behave otherwise.”

“So where is it?”

“Three blocks from here, and just a block from the Cimetiere.”

Holmes and LeRocque set off at once, maintaining their personas but moving with more purpose, pausing only to look for hairpins under streetlights.  They find two, one per block.  On the third block, Holmes notices a glint just beneath a first story window of a corner building, above the entrance to an alleyway.  With a harsh tsk, Holmes admonishes angrily under his breath, “For God’s sake, Russell, I’m not a dolt.”

LeRocque looks at him in surprise. Holmes steps quickly to the building, jumps up with his arm outstretched, but falls short of the window.  Scanning the empty street, Holmes whispers, “LeRocque, give me a boost.”  Getting no response, Holmes turns to see another blank look on LeRocque’s face.  “Russell’s left another breadcrumb.  Only this time to her folly.”

“What, up there?”

“Yes.  Her knife.  Unmistakably hers.  She wanted to be sure I’d find her, so she threw it where I would see it but nobody else would take it.  Reckless!  And just as she enters the lion’s den!”

“Tough target.  Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” snaps Holmes with extreme annoyance.  “She has an extraordinary talent for precision throwing.  Quick!  Give me a lift.  She may have need of it before this is over.”

LeRocque knits his fingers together for Holmes to step into.  Using him as a launching pad, he leaps up and swings at the knife to knock it from the wood, throwing his other arm over his head and collapsing over LeRocque’s shoulders to protect them both from the falling knife that clatters to the ground.  Holmes snatches it up and tucks it under his sleeve, and the two men proceed quickly to the doorway.  Holmes clutches LeRocque once again about the shoulders, and with a mutual nod at one another, the two enter the vile establishment.

The door opens into a single large room with four wooden posts supporting the low ceiling. Along the wall to the left, there’s a bar that extends almost the length of the room, ending at a doorway for deliveries.  The remainder of the room has a random assortment of rough tables and battered chairs alongside crates and barrels serving the same purpose.  Litter, everything from rags, broken glass, and used condoms, is piled in corners, and spit, spills and bits of food stuff cover the floor.   It’s dark, smoky, and stinks of spirits, rotting food and overripe bodies.

There are about a dozen people seated in the room, two copulating against the wall in the far back corner, another five at the bar, and a bartender.   Men outnumber women by two to one.  Holmes spots Russell immediately.  She’s about halfway back in the room, seated at a very small table, with a view to the door, and to the left of a child of about 9 years of age.  The child is wearing an old, dirty and oversized coat, surely the one Russell had traded for from the vagrant.  His wife is divesting herself of a remarkable number of coats, thinks Holmes.  Russell looks dirty and dishevelled, her sleeve is torn, and she has a rising bruise on her left cheek.  She casts a vague, disinterested look at Holmes and LeRocque before touching her cheek, looking from the child, to the couple ‘in flagrante’ behind her and back to Holmes.

Without dropping his act Holmes meets Russell’s gaze with a momentary flash of rage, letting her know he’s understood her completely.  Her gesture to the bruise, the child and the couple was all he needed to deduce that the man is the owner of this establishment, he threatened the child, struck Russell and is now currently violating the mother.  Which makes him violent, exhibitionist, sadistic; exactly the sort of character capable of perpetrating the heinous crime they were investigating.  He also understands that Russell will not abandon the child next to her, or the child’s mother, and that they need to extract not only themselves but these two as well. He knows Russell would not leave the pair at the mercy of the owner regardless, but he suspects she thinks there is more to learn from them related to their investigation.

Holmes steps further into the room, nudging LeRocque towards the bar as he sidles slightly to the right giving them both a clear view and a tactical advantage.  Loudly enough for everyone to hear, Holmes calls to LeRocque, “See Lenny, what did I tell you.  Some right popular girls here, and you won’t freeze your balls off like I near did.”  Giving the women in the room a lewd scouring with his eyes, Holmes points first to one and then another, “What do you think, Lenny?  She’s a might short, and that one’s already got a queue.”  Approaching Russell, “But this one, wholesome enough looking for your American tastes, and legs up to her eyes I’ll wager.”  As he says this, he leans over, blocking the view of the patrons, and lets Russell’s knife slide silently to the table.  Russell smoothly takes the knife beneath the table and slides it into her boot.  She then flashes a look toward the child, or more specifically to the pocket of the coat the child is now wearing, indicating to Holmes that her gun is hidden there.

LeRocque has just now recognized Russell, transformed and diminished in her appearance compared to when he last saw her at the café.  He’s concerned for her and outraged by what he sees; the bruise on her cheek, the waif at her side (a child in such a place!), the harsh bump and grind from the corner.  He starts across the room towards them, all business and bristle, looking all the world like Sūreté.

Holmes sees that LeRocque has completely forgotten the ruse and moves with the lurch of a drunk to intercept him. With a loud guffaw, and a few lewd sniggers Holmes calls out in English, “Slow down there, mate.  You’ll get your snatch soon enough.”  Turning back toward Russell, his eyes roving over her, he says, “A pretty bird she is.  And tall enough to climb.”  Shocked at the crude comments Holmes made about his wife, LeRocque staggers to a halt and remembers himself, what he’s supposed to be doing.  Embarrassed at his gaff, his cheeks burn red as he chokes out his own guffaw, and then stands swaying in place.  Nearby patrons nudge one another and laugh at his expense, thinking the naive Yank’s blushing at the vulgarity.

By now the owner’s attention has been drawn and after a final, rough thrust of the hips, pushes himself away from the woman, tucks his member back in his pants and calls over to the newcomers. “Watch it, gents, she’s a feisty one. Could use another good knock, she could.”  Advancing towards them, he laughs like a jackal at his own pun before continuing, “Doubt you’re up to it, old man” he says pointing his chin at Holmes, “And the kid’s more his size,” pointing a finger at LeRocque.  There is laughter again from a scattering of patrons and the owner is clearly pleased with the success of his jokes and the attention he’s drawn to himself.  The mother, petrified, pushes her way past the owner to stand by her daughter protectively.

The owner is a mountain of a man; tall, wide, powerful, brutish. He saunters up behind the women and girl clustered around the small table and assesses the two newcomers with a greedy gleam.  Seeing LeRocque’s unsteady stance and oblivious grin, he identifies Holmes as the man in charge and locks eyes with him to do business.  Without warning, the owner abruptly grabs both Russell and the child by their hair and drags them to their feet, the mother sandwiched between them.  Holmes and LeRocque both tense to pounce as he pins Russell to his right side and the child to his left. Holmes knows Russell is hindered; being left handed, there’s little she can do from this position to help herself or the others.  She’ll bide her time and wait for an opportunity; an opportunity Holmes plans to provide.

The owner pulls Russell’s head back and licks her cheek. “You want a taste of these, you’ll have to deal with me.”  Fearing for her child, the mother cries out a sob, but quails from the owner’s bark in her ear to “Shut it.”

Holmes continues to play his part. He ogles Russell, the mother and the child in turn, as he replies slowly, “What’s your price then?”

Thinking he can make a lot of money from these drunks, the owner shakes the child’s head by her hair as he replies, “Well now.  This small one, she’s new, hasn’t been plucked yet.”  Then, shaking Russell’s head, “And this tall one, she hasn’t been broken yet.  Either one will cost you double” snickers the owner.

Holmes continues his lewd perusal, “And all three? What’ll that cost?”

The owner was practically drooling at the prospect, but was suspicious too, calculating.

“Oh ho!  That’s a tall order for a Yank and an old man.  My best merchandise and it’ll cost extra for a room.  Show me you’ve got the money.”

Holmes steps over to LeRocque, throws his arm around him and says, “Lenny, you heard the man, time for your wallet.”  As LeRocque reaches into his coat, Holmes leans and whispers directly into his ear, “No guns.”  LeRocque isn’t sure whether he means the owner is unarmed, Russell is missing hers, or he shouldn’t use his, but there’s no time to ask.  Given the number of people in the room, he’d only pull his gun as a last resort anyway.

Holmes returns to the group, this time drawing alongside the table, so it no longer stands between them. Reaching to his side, he lays a generous sum down piece by piece, so the owner can count it, “This should cover it.”

Holmes can practically see the wheels turning as the owner considers his next move.  The owner wants the money, badly, but enjoys grandstanding his cruelty just as much.  He’ll have to give up one to get the other, and Holmes plans to seize the moment when he does.

“Tell you what,” says the owner as he yanks Russell more tightly back against him and pushes the child and mother in front of him, “You and your mate can start with these two, while I get this one ready.”

Holmes slams his hand down on the money, and slowly drags it across the table away from the owner.  He sees the internal struggle this causes and also when the owner relaxes into a decision.  His mouth smiles at Holmes for a moment while his eyes stay cold.  Then in a burst of movement, he simultaneously releases Russell’s hair and uses his shoulder to shove her hard against the bar.  He pushes the mother and child roughly toward Holmes, and grabs for the money from the table.  The child trips over the long coat and falls into Holmes, causing him to stumble backwards.  Russell regains her balance against the bar, whips her knife from her boot, and raises her arm above and behind, winding up to throw the knife with all her might towards the owner.

Just as Holmes recovers his footing, there is the explosion of a firearm and a terrible shriek. The room erupts in pandemonium.  Patrons leap up screaming to scatter out of the way. Holmes looks first to LeRocque but sees him looking around just as frantically.  Holmes grabs the child in front of him, with Russell’s smoking gun in her hand.  He hugs her close as he twists the gun out of her grasp.  In one fluid movement he spreads his arms wide and shepherds the mother and child towards LeRocque, giving the gun to him and hissing to get them out of there. He whirls to find Russell in the mayhem and sees the bartender’s hand clenched around Russell’s wrist, her arm wrenched awkwardly behind her.

Holmes pulls his own gun and points it at the bartender, meeting his eyes with murderous ferocity.  The bartender releases Russell to duck and run for the exit. Russell’s knife clatters to the floor as she first drops to her knees, face white as a sheet, cradling her left arm in front of her body, before folding in half and slumping to the side.  Holmes lunges toward her, only to be hit and knocked to the floor by a crate thrown by the owner.  Russell sees Holmes go down, scrabbles for her knife with her right hand, and tries to get to her feet beneath her but is knocked back to the floor by a savage kick to her side from the owner.  Holmes rolls to his back and points his gun at the owner’s abdomen, but before he can release a shot, the room explodes with another crack, this time from LeRocque’s firearm.   The owner drops to the floor quite dead, a red stain rapidly expanding across his chest.  Patrons stream out of the building, scattering in every direction.  While Holmes rushes to Russell, he yells to LeRocque to retrieve the mother and child.  LeRocque runs from the room, fires a second shot into the air, and then brings the two back into the room, directing them to a far corner away from the dead man.

Holmes is crouched at Russell’s head, frantically trying to see where she’s hurt.  “Russell, Russ!  Please God, not again!”

LeRocque has joined the pair and hears her staccato response through clenched teeth, “Not shot.  This time.”

With an agonized laugh Holmes responds, “Well then, an improvement.”

“ _This time_?” repeats LeRocque.  Not waiting for a response, he rushes back to the horrified mother-daughter pair to reassure the stricken child that she didn’t accidently shoot the lady who had tried to protect her. Leaving the two relieved and huddled in each other’s arms, he returns to crouch down beside Holmes and hears Russell say with strain and shallow breaths, “A. Bit. Broken.”

“Holmes, I can help.  Mary, where does it hurt?”

She tries to move, to look at LeRocque directly, and cries out in pain.  Looking at Holmes she manages, “Ambulance”.  Directing her eyes back to LeRocque, “Shoulder.  Ribs.”  Her eyelids flutter and her eyes roll up into her head.

“Merde, she’s passed out.  We need to lay her flat, raise her feet.”

Holmes responds immediately to LeRocque’s authoritative tone and, seeing the logic of his command, does as he’s been told.  The movement revives Russell.  Groaning, her eyes open and search to meet Holmes’.  He resumes his spot at her head, looking down directly at her.

“I need to see her injuries, may I?” asks LeRocque, indicating Russell’s blouse.

Without breaking eye contact with Russell, Holmes waves his hand, “Quickly, man”.

LeRocque uses both hands to rip her shirt to expose her neck and chest.  Russell manages two words through clenched teeth.  In reference to the deal brokered with the owner, she says “Martin. Paid.”

Pausing, LeRocque looks from Russell to Holmes, and sees him respond with a bemused expression.  “What?  Joking?  Now?”  With a wane smile, Russell lets her eyes close to submit to the examination. Looking back to Russell’s neck and shoulder, he draws in a sharp breath at the scar he sees at her right clavicle, and another at the back of her neck to the left.  Understanding now, he says under his breath, “ _This time_ ”.  He then recites, loud and clear, “A flattening of her left shoulder and a lump beneath her collar bone.  Her shoulder, it’s dislocated.  It’s a horrifically painful injury, Holmes, but she should get instant relief as soon as its reduced.”  He then proceeds to gently work his hands down Russell’s torso, along the sides and around to her back.  “Two broken ribs, maybe three, also on the left side.  With luck, they won’t have punctured a lung.”

LeRocque stands up and moves to Russell’s left side, while Holmes pulls Russell’s torn shirt back together.  Crouching down, LeRocque wraps his hand around Russell’s upper arm and takes her hand in his, as if in a handshake.   Without pausing what he’s doing, he says to Holmes, “The police, they should be here any moment.  You can accompany her in the ambulance to the hospital.  I can stay here for the inquiry, ask the mother and child about what they know.”

Overhearing the plan, Russell speaks up.  “No.  Holmes.  Sisters.”

Holmes looks at her.  “Russell, your injuries.  You need medical attention.  LeRocque can manage.”

LeRocque holds Russell’s upper arm more firmly against her side and starts to very gently pull, while slowly rotating her arm out to the side, palm up.  Russell uses her right arm to reach for Holmes, clutching him by the coat, to try and raise herself up.  She cries out in pain before dropping the attempt, panting.

“For God’s sake, Russell, lie still,” cries Holmes, mirroring her distress.

LeRocque switches hands and resumes his efforts, using his thumb to apply pressure to the top of her shoulder while very slowing sliding her bent arm up as if to reach over her head.  Russell stares into Holmes’ eyes and repeats herself.  “No.  Holmes.  Sisters.”

Holmes stares back, concentrating, and then comprehension creeps into his expression.  “Sisters.  The murdered child had a sister.”  The enormity of this news, the horrible implication, is written across Holmes face as he looks down at her with concern.

“Russ, she may already be dead.  The first murders, the Wilsons.  It may have been the same, the police could have missed…”.  Russell cries out again, this time as her shoulder pops back into place.  Holmes watches as Russell slips back into a faint, her eyes rolling back into her head.

LeRocque and Holmes look at one another, LeRocque with relief and Holmes with indecision.

“The worst is over now,” says LeRocque.  “Her shoulder will be quite sore for a few days. And she’ll need a sling. I can’t do anything here for the ribs, they need to be taped.”

Holmes looks at the Lieutenant, his jaw working, his eyes conscience-stricken by what he’s about to do. “LeRocque.  If there’s any chance the sister’s alive.”

LeRocque looks back at him thoughtfully.  He doesn’t have the keen observation skills of the detective, but he’s good with people. Holmes’ expression, a mix of torment and resolve, spoke volumes of his love for his wife and his strict moral code, the burden of responsibility he carries.

“You’re the sister’s best hope.  I know.  Or more to the point, Mary knows.  She expects nothing less of you.” says LeRocque.

Russell starts to rouse, her eyes blinking as she tries to refocus on her surroundings.  She finds her mark and looks to Holmes, pleading with her eyes, “Sisters, Holmes, she had a sister”.

Holmes brushes his hand ever so lightly across her bruised cheek.  “Russell.  I know.  I’ll talk to the mother and child.  Learn what they know.  I’ll examine the Wilsons’ bodies, their wounds.  Go to the scene. Whatever it takes.”

Russell’s features relax in relief. Letting her gaze drop and gloss over, she mumbles, “Good.  Go.”

Holmes takes LeRocque’s elbow and the two men rise, stepping a short distance from Russell.  “The dead man, you’ll need to stay here for the inquiry.  Is there someone you can trust to patch her up?”

“Surely she should go to the hospital,” says LeRocque, surprised.

“Appearances, LeRocque!  They’ll see nothing more than a wanton addict, and consider her wounds expected and well deserved.  Callous cruelty is what she’ll get, or at best indifference.”

“The blokes I know could do a field dressing – but no, there’s no one I’d trust to do it properly.”

“An escort, then.  Someone who could accompany her, be her advocate.  Someone from the Sūreté?  Your wife?”

LeRocque doesn’t respond immediately; looking at Russell and then back to Holmes.  He replies slowly, a hint of embarrassment in his voice.  “The blokes at the Sūreté, they’re competent enough as far as it goes.  But for something like this?  No.  It’ll have to be my wife.  She won’t be pleased but she knows right from wrong and will do right by Miss Russell.”

This time it’s Holmes’ turn to pause, looking between Russell and the Lieutenant, assessing the options.  LeRocque can tell Holmes is dubious about his less than glowing recommendation.  He also has no doubt Holmes picked up on the subtext, the estrangement between he and his wife and wonders just how much Holmes has surmised about the cause of their current difficulties.

Holmes decides, “It’ll have to do.  I ask that you check on her as soon as your duties allow.  And LeRocque, Russell may be temporarily out of commission, but not for long.  Try not to lose her again.”

With that admonishment, he turns on his heel and heads for the corner to interview the mother and child.


	5. Chapter 5

# Chapter 5

**20 November 1922, Paris**

It is four o’clock Monday morning and Holmes, stealthily, so as not to awaken his wife, lets himself into the hotel room of the Hôtel de la Paix, located in the Fifth Arrondissement, south of the Seine in Paris’ artistic Left Bank.  He waits a moment, slumped against the door he’s just closed behind him, to allow his eyes to adjust to the low light coming from the crack of the bathroom door beside him.  The room is long and narrow such that the length of the bed stretches three quarters across the width of the room, effectively dividing the space in half.  The front half contains the bathroom, closet, bed and small nightstand.  The remainder of the furnishings; dresser, armchair, and wooden valet to the left, a table and two chairs to the right, are at the far end of the room along with a window and doorway to a small balcony.

Wearily he removes his shoes before crossing the room to peek outside the curtained window onto the cul-de-sac below.  He glances back to the bed, just able to make out the large mound in the middle of it.  Exhausted, he can’t help but sigh with the realization that he’s to be relegated to the chair in the corner so as not to disrupt Russell in her elaborate cocoon of strategically placed pillows. He shrugs his wet and dirty coat from his shoulders, laying it over the valet, and proceeds to empty his pockets and remove the gun tucked in his belt at the small of his back. He hears a stir from Russell and then a grunt of pain, but before he can reach her to still her movements, she calls out into the room “Martin?” followed by a note of friendly admonishment “I told you I’m waiting.  Would you just lie down?”

Holmes stops mid-step as he tries to process this unexpected statement.  Moments later a narrow shaft of light appears from a door opposite the bed, and LeRocque’s voice calls in with mock sternness, “Mary?  You better be where I left you.”

Light spills into the room as LeRocque enters through a door, normally kept locked, that connects this hotel room to a similar one on the other side.  LeRocque comes to an abrupt halt at the sight of Holmes with his gun still held loosely in his hand. 

Russell is the first to speak.  “Holmes?  Why are you here?”

Holmes is reminded of the last time Russell had asked him that question, after he had surprised her in her bolt hole.  Slowly he turns his head from LeRocque to Russell, eyebrow raised.   Gesturing vaguely with the gun toward LeRocque he responds, “Were you expecting someone else?”

Catching the reference, she replies, “No.  No secret liaisons.” 

“It would appear I should accuse you of cheating this time.”  

Russell’s laughter sounds more like a howl as it is cut short by a sharp intake of breath at the pain in her ribs. Russell pleads, “Oh Holmes.  Stop.”

The Lieutenant is still rooted to the spot, palms raised toward Holmes in a gesture intended to calm an armed and dangerous adversary.  “Holmes, this is not as it appears.”  Directing his gaze to the gun he continues, “You can put that down and I’ll explain everything.”

Gasping again as she tries to stifle her laughter, Russell finally manages, “Holmes.  Don’t.    The Lieutenant has suffered enough.  Don’t worry, Martin. It’s an inside joke.  He’s not about to shoot you.”

Laughter dancing in his eyes, Sherlock sets his gun on the dressing table as he turns to the tense and increasingly confused Lieutenant.  “Lieutenant, Russell is quite right.  Forgive me.  It’s been a long day.” Taking in LeRocque’s fully dressed and dishevelled appearance, he continues, “For all of us, I see.  I thank you for watching over Russell as dutifully as I asked.  She has been disinclined to follow doctor’s orders, I take it?”

LeRocque looks back and forth between Holmes and Russell as the meaning of Russell’s words finally catch up to him.  “What?  Joking?  Again?”  Shaking his head as if to clear it, he slouches into the door jamb as the tension of the moment leaves him.  “Hm.  Disinclined.  A mild understatement.  You know, she has no inclination whatsoever toward self-preservation.”

Holmes chuckles.  “A fact that has come to my attention.  I did warn you.”  Holmes turns on a small lamp on the dresser and continues to putter about the room while LeRocque recounts Russell’s behaviour.

“I caught up with her at the hospital.  As soon as they finished taping her up, she was determined to go right back to Pigalle.  She almost got away from me twice.  Wouldn’t even take a bit of morphia to ease the pain.”

Holmes turns suddenly serious, directing a stern look to Russell.  “You’re not up to it, Russell.  You can pursue the other matter that brought us here.”

Annoyed with the two men and how they seem to be aligning against her, “I’ll not be coddled.  By either of you. I’m uncomfortable, nothing more” replies Russell snappishly.  “I know my limits and will decide for myself.”

Succumbing to the old habits of master and pupil, Holmes reacts to Russell’s stubborn petulance with dismissing authority. It’s a well-worn track, so easy to slip into and difficult to break out of once it’s begun.  “It’s not your injuries alone I’m referring to, Russell.  Your behaviour last night was foolish in the extreme.  It’s a wonder you’re not more seriously injured.  It would seem you’ve forgotten everything I taught you” rebuked Holmes.

“Or your instruction was inadequate” retorts Russell.

“You mean by not introducing you to London’s most vile holes?  Perhaps.  But you failed to apply even the most rudimentary of tactics.  Your knife tossed away uselessly into a window frame.  Your gun left in the hands of a child.  Sitting to the right of the child, hindering the use of your dominant hand.  Even worse, you had your back turned to the most dangerous man in the room.  I could go on.” 

LeRocque can’t help himself from coming to Russell’s defence.  “Whoa, Holmes!  You’re being completely unfair.”

“Is it also ‘ _unfair_ ’, Lieutenant, that you shot dead the one person who could have led us to the mastermind of these crimes?” asks Holmes scathingly, not even deigning to look at him.  Anticipating a roar of protest from LeRocque, Holmes’ arm snaps up, directing a flat palm in the Lieutenant’s direction to silence him while keeping his gaze locked on his wife. 

It may not have been LeRocque’s intention, but his interruption is just what Holmes and Russell need to drop their futile quarrel.   Taking a deep breath, Holmes speaks with resignation and empathy. “Fair or not, Russell, you know I’m right.” 

Russell understands he is not talking about strategic errors of the night before but about her leaving the murder investigation up to him.  She appreciates his tone, and the acknowledgement of the dilemma she faces, but is not yet convinced of his conclusion. 

Before Russell can respond, Holmes redirects his attention to the Lieutenant, dropping his hand in mild surprise at LeRocque’s pensive gaze.  From long experience, Holmes had expected LeRocque to react defensively to his accusation.  Most men would bluster at his challenge and rationalize their behaviour as both obvious and necessary even though it was neither.  They would not consider the logic of his conclusion nor the ramifications, and Holmes would then proceed to enlighten and humiliate them with withering precision.  Holmes is therefore surprised and pleased to see that LeRocque chooses reason over ego, skipping the wounded bellow altogether to consider the importance of the bar owner.

“You’re sure then, the owner killed them?”  asks LeRocque.

“Yes,” replies Holmes simply.

“And the sister too?” asks Russell, without a trace of hope in her voice.

Holmes turns to collapse into the chair.  “She’s dead, Russ.  I didn’t find her body, but the evidence at the Wilson’s was obvious if you knew what to look for.  I suspect her body was carted off unnoticed in the trash just as her sister’s body would have been if you hadn’t found her.  And yes, the owner was definitely the one who killed all three; the sisters and the mother. His boot a clear match to the print taken at the Wilson’s.  The fibre taken from your hand matches his garment.”

Holmes continues, “I questioned the pair you found at Le Choc, Giselle and her daughter Marie.  They remember quite clearly the last time they had seen a woman with her two girls.  They’d seen them before, once or twice, but they were foreigners and kept to themselves.  The evening before the mother’s body was found, they saw her pleading with the owner, in a mix of broken French and some other language Giselle didn’t recognize.  Turkish, I suspect.  Before long, the owner took the woman to a back room, leaving the girls at a table where they sat silently waiting, not even speaking to one another.  About ten minutes later the owner returned alone and pushed the girls into the kitchen.  Giselle and Marie had been jealous at the time.  They knew the routine, sex for food, and were envious that the owner had chosen these foreigners over them.”  Holmes pauses for a moment at the horrible irony of it, before continuing.  “It didn’t take long to find the hammer he’d clubbed the mother with, still stained with blood and hair, as well as where he’d kept the girls locked up.”

“I also tracked down the bartender.  He was skulking not far away in the hopes of helping himself to the till once the police cleared out.  He said the owner, a Greek by the name of Vokos, had been around for a while, 6 or 7 years, maybe more.  He hated everybody, especially foreigners even though he was one himself, and most of all the Turks. All too happy to use them though or take their money.”

Slouching back into the chair and dropping his head onto the chair back, Holmes waits for Russell and LeRocque to absorb his news.  Russell asks the obvious next question.  “The owner, Vokos, he was just the monster at the end of someone’s leash, wasn’t he?  The second man, at the Wilson’s, with the dress shoe?”   

“He was also at the Girard’s, I think.  I didn’t tell you before.  I found a footprint in the yard by the back gate after you’d left.  It matches the dress shoe in style and it’s too large to have been one of Mr. Girard’s.  We’d need the shoe to be absolutely sure, but it fits for now.  I hypothesize it was his gun that shot the Wilsons and Girards.  I couldn’t find a gun anywhere at Le Choc and the bartender had never seen Vokos with one.”

“So we’re practically where we started; the man behind the Wilson’s, and now the Girard’s, murders is still out there.”  She starts to struggle out of her nest, still clothed in her traveling outfit of the day before except for a borrowed shirt to replace her torn one.  “Where to now?  You have a plan, Holmes.  You wouldn’t have come here unless you knew you had the time.”

“Russell.”  After a pause, Holmes says quietly but firmly. “I refuse to answer that question.”

Seeing the intensity of Russell’s glare, and having been at the wrong end of it more than once over the last 12 hours, LeRocque tries to excuse himself from the room, not wanting to be privy to the coming argument. 

Remaining quiet but firm, Holmes says, “Lieutenant, stay where you are.  Your assistance is required.”

Immensely uncomfortable, LeRocque attempts to insert some levity. “Should I get my handcuffs?”

With a twitch of the lips, Holmes drawls, “No use, she can get out of them. They sent her home with morphine.  How much?”

“Holmes” growls Russell, low and menacingly.  “I am not amused.”

“No.  Nor am I.  How can you not see the logic?  You are of no current use to this investigation, Russell.  You are unfamiliar with the city, have no connections here to be exploited, and you’ve lost the use of your left side.  The only obvious course of action is for you to take up the other matter asked of us.  It’s at least as important, possibly more so.  You need to leave the murder investigation up to me at least for the next few days while you heal.  The Lieutenant can stand in your place.  What he lacks in skill he makes up for in local knowledge, connections within the Sūreté, a car, gun and, as evidenced by his presence here tonight, tenacity under duress.”

Russell resumes her struggle, getting to her feet with clenched teeth.  “He doesn’t know what this is all about.”

“I will tell him.  Over breakfast in two hours.  Assuming this plan is amenable to you, Lieutenant?” 

Not wanting to take sides in the negotiation between husband and wife, LeRocque gives a non-committal response.  “Captain LeMarc’s orders are to keep you away from him and out from underfoot.”

“Are they, now?  How disappointing to know that those in charge at the Sūreté are as imbecilic as those in London’s Scotland Yard.  However, in this instance, Russell, it appears the Lieutenant is conveniently at my disposal.  That liberates you to track down Mr. Hemingway.”

“Hem?  Ernest Hemingway, you mean?  What’s he got to do with anything?” asks LeRocque.

Both Holmes and Russell turn their heads to LeRocque and ask simultaneously, “You know him?”

Startled at becoming their intense focus of attention, LeRocque answers as best he can, his eyes darting from one to the other, “Hem was a driver too.  Ambulance. In Italy. During the war.  There’s quite a few of us here in Paris.  Don’t know him particularly well – a friend, of a friend sort of thing.  He spends a lot of time in cafés, writing, or talking about writing.  An artistic crowd.”

Russell and Holmes continue to stare at him as LeRocque’s voice trails off. 

“A friend, of a friend?” prompts Russell.

“What? Oh. It was Dos.  John Dos Passos.  He’s from Chicago, like Hemingway, although I don’t think they knew each other there.  He’s a painter and a writer, part of the same artistic crowd as Hem.  At least when he’s here.  He travels a lot, everywhere and all the time.  I think he’s in New York at the moment.  Anyway, I met Dos when he was with the Norton-Harjes Ambulance Corps – around Verdun.  When the service was taken over by the United States Army, Dos didn’t want to enlist.  He’s a pacifist, you know, a true ‘gentleman volunteer’.  He signed on with the Red Cross in Italy and met Hemingway there.”

“That does present intriguing possibilities,” says Holmes, rubbing his chin as he considers whether to exploit LeRocque’s friendship to recruit Hemingway for Mycroft.  Then, with a decisive tap of his fist on the chair’s armrest he continues, “I think the arrangement should stay as it is.  For the time being our man of the Sūreté will be more valuable to me than to you, Russell.” 

All business, Holmes gets up.  “Lieutenant, I suggest you get some rest.  We will discuss matters further over breakfast”.  Holmes ushers LeRocque into his room returning a minute later with a handful of medical supplies including tape and the morphine Russell had refused earlier.  He kicks the door between the rooms closed, locks it, and, leaning his back against the door, turns his full attention to his wife. 

Husband and wife remain standing like this for almost a minute, before Russell breaks the silence.  “Your logic is sound.”

Russell’s acquiescence to turn her attention to the Hemingway matter may have brought Holmes a modicum of relief but not because he won the argument.  Russell, he knew, would have pursued the investigation with almost limitless zeal, drawing the strength from her compassion and the perseverance from her strict sense of responsibility.  He also knew that stepping away from the investigation pains her as much as it would have him.  Like him, once resolved to act, she would not be deterred.  Not unless the weight of evidence or opportunity tips the balance toward a better course of action.  All Holmes did was provide a rational alternative she deemed acceptable.  He is acutely aware that her decision will stand only so long as it remains, in her estimation, the best option. 

Their course of action resolved, Holmes turns his attention to the immediate needs of the moment, announcing, “Russell, we need a bath.”  He steps over to her in two long strides, taking her head in his hands, for a deep kiss.  Russell attempts a weak protest, claiming that she is no condition for what he has in mind.  Holmes opts to completely ignore her and proceeds to pull the pins from her hair.  Silently he runs his fingers along her scalp and the back of her neck to loosen it about her, and then leads her into the bathroom, turning the tub faucet to hot.  As the room fills with steam, he proceeds to undress first himself and then, with studious attention and great care, his wife.  Before assisting her into the tub, he carefully examines the taping on her ribs so that he is sure he can duplicate it.  He settles Russell in the hot water, bending her knees to allow her to lay back, and proceeds to spend the next 20 delicious minutes washing first her hair and then every inch of her body with slow, tender, thorough, and ever so stimulating attention to detail.  Between the warmth of the water and Holmes’ exquisite touch, Russell is rendered nearly incoherent, her muscles soft, skin tingling, and her brain empty but for the waves of sensation beneath his hands. 

Noting the flush to her checks and soft moans escaping from her lips, Holmes is most pleased with himself and the obvious success of his efforts.  He leans in for a kiss and a gentle nip at her lip, to bring her back into the present.  Her eyes now open, he pops the plug, and carefully raises her to a standing position for a rinse.  Turning the faucet back on and directing the flow of water to the sprayer, he hands it to her to keep herself warm while he proceeds to give himself a thorough although considerably more expeditious scrubbing.  His ablutions complete, Russell hands the sprayer back and, stepping closer, reaches her right hand to him in an unmistakably provocative manner.  Holmes looks to her, a smile on his face but brow raised in question.  With a glint in her eye, Russell says, “One good turn deserves another.  I may not be ambidextrous, but I have some skill with my right hand.” 

“The depths of your talents know no bounds,” chuckles Holmes. 

“What is it you always say, practice makes perfect?” quips Russell.  However, by then, Holmes has moved quite beyond a verbal response and the question goes unanswered.  In the end, Russell is feeling quite pleased with the success of her efforts too.

The hot water nearly exhausted, Holmes and Russell resign themselves to bringing this restorative interlude to an end.  After drying off, and brushing Russell’s hair, Holmes, with Russell’s acquiescence, administers a not so small dose of morphine before re-taping Russell’s ribs, now a livid tapestry of red and purple, and helping her don clean undergarments.  He settles her back into the middle of the bed, pillows and blankets propped around her.

“Rest Holmes.  You need it as much as I.”

“There’s an extra bed in LeRocque’s room if I need it.  I’ll be sure to leave food in the room for you before the Lieutenant and I depart.”

“You really are abandoning me for LeRocque.  Tell me where you’re taking him, or I’ll have to accuse you of a secret liaison.”

“Not so secret, Russell.”

“You haven’t told me where you are going.”

“No.  No, I have not. The folly of an overprotective husband.  But I will check in with the hotel periodically.”

Starting to drift off to sleep, Russell mutters to herself, “Incorrigible husband more like.  It’s a wonder I ever married you.”

“A wonder indeed, Russell,” whispers Holmes.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

# Chapter 6

**20 November 1922, Paris**

Late in the morning Russell slowly emerges from the sleep of the dead. Feeling stiff as a cadaver, she wrestles herself from the bed, hissing invectives at the pain in her side and shoulder and starts the laborious process of dressing herself one-handed. She finds the makeup Holmes left for her and dabs it to her cheek to conceal her bruise. Unable to do much with her hair in this compromised state, she opts for a low and loose queue, and imagines Holmes’ acerbic comment were he to see her out and about in such an untamed state. She picks unenthusiastically at the bits of stale croissant he left for her, until she discovers a short list of cafés tucked inside the upside-down cup on its saucer. Holmes has no doubt predicted her yawning appetite, but she’s confident the list is more to do with Mr. Hemingway’s penchant for writing in cafés than a dining recommendation. Efficient as always, thinks Russell, but in this circumstance an excellent suggestion. This is after all Paris, a mecca of comestibles, so why not enjoy a delectable and fortifying meal while on the hunt for Mycroft’s potential spy.

Being once again without a coat, she pulls her heaviest scarf across her shoulders, makes a few enquiries of the hotel concierge, and then steps out into the street of a cold, dreary and rainy day. She’s desperate to walk, despite the wet, chill and ache in her side. She pulls her scarf tightly over her head as she sets off north toward the shops and cafés of the Place St. Michel a short kilometre away. After procuring a new coat, now her third in the 30 hours since arriving in Paris, she steps into Le Depart St. Michel, a clean and wonderfully warm café, and one of the ones on her list. The café is about three quarters full, mostly with locals, either alone at their tables reading over coffee or tête-à-tête over a meal. One gentleman in particular, however, immediately draws Russell’s attention. Protective of her left side, she carefully makes her way to the rear of the room and takes a seat at a banquette table extending from the back wall allowing her to observe him unnoticed.

Russell places an order for coffee, juice and two crepes, one savoury with bacon, potato, cheese and egg and the other sweet with chocolate and cream, then demurs that, contrary to the size of her order, she will be dining alone. By the time her café-au-lait arrives she’s convinced she has found Mycroft’s journalist. The man is seated at a small table in the middle of the room, facing the large rain splattered windows at the front of the café that look to the now empty terrace and busy street beyond. Pencils and sharpener littered on the table, he sits hunched over a notebook, scribbling furiously, his half empty coffee completely forgotten. His hair is very short, just a few weeks’ worth of growth after having been cut to the scalp. His face and neck show signs of recently healed sores from bites, and his skin is slightly yellowed and loose as if he’d recently lost a great deal of weight. Taken together, it’s clear to Russell the man must be Hemingway, recently returned from assignment in Turkey where he’d suffered from the deprivations of war, malaria and lice.

Just as Russell’s food arrives, Holmes enters the café alone. From the entrance he scans the room carefully before acknowledging Russell with a tip of his hat. He then sheds hat and coat by the door, hanging them on the rack to dry, and joins her in the formal manner of mere acquaintances. He orders coffee and the two exchange pleasantries while Russell exuberantly wolfs down her prodigious meal. Passing the time, he looks discretely at some scraps of paper he’s lifted from another coat on the rack, glances to Hemingway and gives Russell a confirmatory nod. As the waiter clears the empty dishes and replenishes their coffees, Holmes returns the papers while ostensibly retrieving his cigarette case from his coat pocket. Once back at the table, cigarette lit, he and Russell resume their conversation, this time speaking quietly enough not to be easily overheard while maintaining the appearance of light, casual and not too familiar conversation.

“You made quick work, Russell.”

“Not so much quick as lucky. I’m moving like an old woman. And you?”

“Like an old man,” he says with a curl of his lips.

“Spry enough for me,” replies Russell coyly, stifling her smile as she recalls their early morning intimacies and the reaction the reference is sure to elicit.

As expected, Holmes responds with a shift in his chair and a disapproving grunt, which in turn elicits a broad grin from Russell. She just can’t help herself, needling him when he assumes this particular role. Holmes is a master of disguise precisely because he adopts not just the outward appearance and mannerisms, but the underlying culture and sensibilities of his intended persona. He can do this successfully for an astonishing array of roles, cutting across age, class, faith, nationality and quite possibly, even gender. But portraying an aged and repressed Victorian patrician comes as naturally to him as breathing. At almost 40 years her senior, it is a culture he has been steeped in and one he can rightfully claim as his own. Fortunately, for both of them, he chooses to do so only when it suits, for an investigation or, should the mood strike him, to needle her.

Russell repeats her question. “And you, Holmes? You’re spry enough to have dodged the question.”

“Have I been lucky? It’s hardly a question worth answering. It was a simple matter to deduce when you would rise and given your need of both a walk and a coat, which café you would choose to visit first. I am surprised that you were not further along with your meal and by the unseemly state of your hair. Perhaps I did not adequately account for your limitations? Or was it an unsuccessful search for more hairpins that delayed you?”

“Or the dose of morphine you administered,” retorts Russell with annoyance. She pauses to swallow her coffee and consider why Holmes is being evasive, explaining how he found her rather than why. “The question of how your investigation is progressing is now twice avoided. You’ve been unlucky,” she concludes, waving off his objection, “and you have a need to tell me something I do not want to hear.”

“I’m beginning to understand how exasperating it is to be read so plainly. You are right, I do have something to tell you. Possibly two things. But first, give me your impressions of the journalist. They have some bearing.”

Holmes’ request that Russell present her observations, relying on her summary rather than spending the time to make his own deductions, is more than a simple expedience. It is a ritual of reassurance between spouses that enables them to continue their partnership. Holmes demands keen observation and clarity of thought, knowing it is her best protection. Russell demonstrates her abilities, knowing it is his strongest reassurance. Russell demands he rely on her, knowing his trust is necessary for true partnership. Holmes demonstrates his trust, knowing it is her strongest reassurance. It is through this ritualized testing and proving that they affirm their mutual respect and shared responsibility to one another. Sitting in a café more than 7 years later, Russell proceeds to recite her observations much as she had done under the shade of the copper beech the first day they’d met, and on countless occasions since.

“Well, Mycroft said he’s young, poor and ambitious; I’d agree with all of that. He’s my age or there about. Married, no children. He’s here for the warmth, not to pay for a meal. He’s a regular, but not so regular that they call him by name or bring him something to eat or drink without request. Perhaps those other cafés are his more usual haunts. He is affable, at least superficially, drawing a quick smile or laugh from the staff. He’s confident, arrogant even, claiming his place in this café like a boulder in a stream, solid, wide and immovable. But not so confident that he’s lazy. He works incredibly hard, obsessively, ignoring what’s going on around him until he wants something. That could be a problem for Mycroft.”

“Unless what he’s writing about pertains to matters of state.”

“True enough. We saw evidence of that in his reporting for the Toronto Star. But I suspect his current focus is a work of fiction. He doesn’t reference any notes. And I doubt the subject concerns what’s immediately around him. When he looks up it’s with a distant or unfocused look. The one exception is women. It’s my impression he pays a lot of attention to them, his wife notwithstanding. There was a young lady here earlier, over by the window, quite striking, her black hair cut short and severely, accentuating her sharp, slender features. He did focus on her, greedily, I’d say. I thought for sure he’d approach her, but in the end, he turned back to his notebook. I don’t think he’s even noticed yet that she’s gone. I’m not sure that bodes well for Mycroft, either.”

“Not unless he could use it to his advantage. Would women find him attractive?”

“I haven’t really considered it,” replies Russell loyally.

“How reassuring,” quips Holmes with a hint of impatience. “Perhaps you would consider it now?”

Russell tilts her head and studies him frankly. “Yes. Yes, I think plenty of women would, especially once his hair grows back in. He has a limp, not recent by the wear of his shoes, probably from the war. He’s vain, his eyesight is poor, but he refuses to wear glasses. And I suspect he’s self-absorbed. But for all that he has a sort of primal appeal; strong, self-assured, virile, a sure bet if you needed a mate.”

“Hm. Most informative Russell.”

“Surely you have something to add, Holmes.”

“Not much. He’s a pugilist. And a drinker. He’s dishonest and self-serving, at least enough so to have worked secretly for the International News Service while under exclusive contract with the Toronto Star. And he departs for Lausanne tomorrow.”

“How could you possibly know that?” says Russell indignantly.

“He has ordered two rum St. James’ since we’ve been watching, Russell,” replies Holmes blandly.

“Oh, shut up. You know what I mean. About the INS and Lausanne. You’ve spoken with Mycroft again, haven’t you?”

Holmes is unable to suppress his laughter, and after a few moments, nor can Russell.

“Holmes, are you finally going to tell me what’s going on?”

“The peace conference starts today in Lausanne and the Star is eager for him to cover it. He’s just taken an assignment with the INS to run wireless coverage there, which puts him on site, so he can keep abreast of developments. The train departs tomorrow at 2pm.”

Russell’s laughter comes to an abrupt halt. “Holmes. That’s three times. Three times you’ve avoided discussing the murder investigation. I’ve agreed to leave it up to you, but this is completely intolerable. I’ll not be cossetted. You know better.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what? You know better or you’re not cossetting?”

“Both, Russell. I am suffering from indecision.”

“A rare affliction indeed,” replies Russell, and a rare confession she adds to herself. Softening her tone, she continues, “I am your partner, Holmes. Use me.”

Holmes raises his eyebrow but Russell refuses to be distracted. Holmes acquiesces. “What we know. Wilson and Girard, two informants, murdered. Both were experts in the politics and economics of the Near East, the competing European interests and Kemal’s deft manipulation of one county against another. The murder suspects; the French, the Greeks or the Turks? Each stand to gain from stopping the leak, as much now as ever while negotiations for a binding treaty proceed. One known killer, Vokos the Greek. His method, an unspeakable assault on a Turkish family, quite possibly in retaliation for atrocities suffered by his countryman, or even his own family, during the war. The purpose of the coercion? To extract information on Mycroft’s intelligence network or to flip the spies to their own purpose. In either event, the henchman is dead and the evidence, so far, points to the Greeks.”

“So far?”

“What we don’t know. Who is the other man? Another Greek, or someone who wants to implicate the Greeks? What will he do now? Is he satisfied, or will he continue?”

“It doesn’t really matter, Holmes.”

“That is a very unexpected statement, Russell.”

“No, of course, it matters. But surely, you’ve concluded that whomever is ultimately to blame is either already in Lausanne or soon to be so. And whatever he plans to do, it will happen there. It would appear that both of Mycroft’s errands lead to Lausanne.”

“Yes. That is what logic dictates. Mycroft, by the way, is in agreement.”

“But you disagree?”

“No. One of us, certainly, should go.”

“One of us,” repeats Russell quietly as she carefully considers this last statement and what Holmes means by it. Her first conclusion, that he intends to leave her behind while she recovers from her injury, is as quickly rejected as the attendant anger it sparked is snuffed. Holmes is nothing if not precise. If he meant that he would go, and she would not, he would have said as much. But he didn’t. Instead he said ‘one of us, certainly’ which asserts both their partnership and the open question of who should go, one, the other or both of them. Which begs the question, why remain in Paris when it appears both of Mycroft’s errands lead to Lausanne. Holmes must not be wholly convinced that there isn’t more to be learned here in Paris.

“Is it indecision, Holmes, that ails you? Or is it that you do not know why you are undecided?”

Holmes looks to Russell, his eyes wide with the accuracy of her diagnosis and the need to unearth the cause of his indecision. Almost immediately his gaze becomes unfocused as he mentally races down new avenues of enquiry prompted by this realization.

Russell continues, “You have until tomorrow at two to figure out the source of your indecision. Bar that, the Lieutenant can continue the investigation here, be our eyes and ears while we pursue matters in Lausanne. Where is Martin, anyway?” asks Russell.

“He’s been pulled away on a personal matter,” responds Holmes distractedly.

“What? What personal matter?”

Refocusing on her, “It is personal, Russell. I opted not to enquire.”

“Good heavens, when has that ever stopped you?” After a pause, “You’ve grown quite attached to him, haven’t you Holmes? You have your suspicions but are respecting his privacy.”

“His affairs are his own,” says Holmes noncommittally, his attention drifting off again.

Russell is not at all satisfied by his vague response but before she can challenge him, Hemingway starts to gather his belongings in preparation to depart. Holmes looks to Russell and states aloud her thoughts, “He’ll respond better to you than me.”

“Agreed, a woman’s touch.”

“I’ll continue with my enquiries and see you back at the hotel tonight or possibly in the morning. We can make a final decision then about Lausanne and whether we shall travel there together. And Russell. Thank you.”

Knowing full well it is not the matter of Hemingway for which he is thankful, but the much more delicate matter of clarifying his thinking, she responds with a curt nod. “I’m happy to be of assistance.”

As soon as Hemingway leaves the café, Holmes helps Russell into her coat, noting how stiffly and uncomfortably she moves. Russell sees the concern in her husband’s eyes and gives him a defiant glare before turning her back and walking out the door. Despite his concern, Holmes knows better than to caution, coddle or chide his partner in any way and turns on his heel to walk in the opposite direction.


	7. Chapter 7

# Chapter 7

**20 November 1922, Paris**

Russell quickly locates Hemingway, heading south in the direction of the Musée de Cluny, and trails discretely behind him.  He seems to be retracing her steps from that morning almost exactly, walking practically to her hotel before turning right to enter the Jardin du Luxembourg from the east. He walks at a steady but unhurried pace along the gravel paths through the formal, sedate and nearly empty park. Despite the poor weather and her aching side and shoulder, Russell is quite content.  Braced by her meal, she is pleased to be walking through the calm and order of the park, allowing her muscles to warm and loosen and her mind to calm and focus.  Although it is difficult for her to leave the murder investigation to Holmes, she is optimistic that she’ll be able to resume the hunt with him in Lausanne.  In the meantime, she understands the value of her current task and is looking forward to meeting the journalist, intrigued by his writing and curious whether her impression will hold once she speaks with him.

Traversing the park east to west, Hemingway eventually reaches the Musée du Luxembourg, located in the north western corner of the gardens on the rue de Vaugirard.  The museum, once an orangery of the Luxembourg Palace, now exhibits the works of contemporary French artists.  Russell follows Hemingway inside and sheds her damp coat and scarf before seeking him out. She finds him standing before two works of Cézanne and comes to stand by his side gazing at the paintings.

“Between the two, which do you prefer, The Bay of Marseille or The Farmyard?” asks Russell, keeping her eyes on the paintings.

Hemingway glances quickly at Russell before returning his gaze to the painting and leaning in to quietly respond.  “An interesting question.  Did you follow me all the way from the café to ask my opinion on the art of contemporary French painters?”

Keeping her eyes locked in front of her, Russell replies in a conspiratorial tone.  “No.  I came to ask you if you wanted to be a spy. But I am curious as to what intrigues you about these two paintings.”

With a bark of laughter, Hemingway turns directly toward her. “A spy?  With an artistic eye?”

Russell flashes a smile and then resumes her study of the Cézanne’s.  “A spy with an observant eye.”

Taking his cue from her, Hemingway looks back toward the paintings.  “I knew you were following me.  That should count for something.”

“Very little, I’m afraid.  You’d need blinders on not to notice someone trailing after you in a deserted park on a rainy day.  But the paintings?  What do you see in them?”

“I noticed you before that, you know.  In the café.  You sat at a table in the back.  You ate a large meal.  An old man joined you.  Your old man?”

“You used the window reflection to observe me.  That does count.  And here I thought you only had eyes for the woman sitting in front of the window.”

Hemingway turns to Russell with an expression of open surprise but manages to recover his nonchalant façade after a few moments. “Her?  Well, yes, she’s pretty enough.  But I know the poseur who calls her his mistress.  She goes in for the old pompous Victorian type.  Come to think of it, maybe you do to.  What is it about beautiful women and old men?”

Refusing to look directly at Hemingway, Russell points her chin to the paintings and asks “What is it about young men who won’t answer a lady’s question?  What do you see in these paintings, Mr. Hemingway?”

Chuckling now in open admiration, Hemingway gives up all pretence of looking at the paintings.  “You are a scheming one.  You know my name.  What else do you know about me?”

“Quite a bit actually.  We have a mutual acquaintance, a former ambulance driver like yourself. I know you served in Italy and were badly wounded.  You are a journalist, quite talented, and have recently returned from assignment in Turkey.  And I know you like to write in cafés, work very hard at it and plan to be an author of significance.  What I do not know, is what you see in these paintings.”

Stunned momentarily by this litany of facts, Hemingway decides to finally answer her question directly.  “Truth.  I see truth, or a way to truth.”

“Couldn’t a photograph give you truth?”

“Some photographs, maybe.  The important thing is that the artist reveals the truth in the image.  Look at this Cézanne – the image is a view of the bay of Marseille from L’Estaque on a sunny day, buildings in the foreground, mountains in the background.  But look how it’s rendered. You can feel the intensity of the sun in the sharp geometry of the buildings, see the movement in the texture of the water.  Look how the patches of green march along the shore and how the angle of the smoke, the jetty, the rooflines, and the mountains pull the image together toward a point just outside the frame.   The painting has cohesion and depth – it shows something real and palpable –  the truth of the bay on a sunny day.  I study these paintings to help my writing.  I’ll show with words something as true as Cézanne paints.  I can’t explain it exactly, not yet anyway.  I’m not sure I even want to.  I have to have some secrets, right, to be an _author of significance_.”

Directing her gaze to the other Cézanne painting, Russell comments “The Farmyard.  That’s a painting that speaks of secrets, don’t you think?  The walls on either side make it feel like we are sneaking a peak at something hidden.  The sun is shining on the building, like a spotlight, but the door is closed, and the windows are shuttered. The dead tree makes me wonder if the farm is abandoned. The grass and the trees have movement, our view directed to the left to something we can’t see, the buildings obstructing our view to what’s behind them. There’s a story there, maybe even a sinister one.  What do you think?”

With her question, Russell looks back to Hemingway, and is surprised to meet his eyes staring intently at her.  Unwilling to demure, her eyes remain locked on his, challenging him to look away first.  “Beautiful, bold and intelligent,” says Hemingway.  “I think there’s a story here.  Maybe even a sinister one.  Who are you?”

“Russell.”  Breaking her gaze to extend her hand in greeting, “Miss Mary Russell.”

“Pleased to meet you Miss Mary Russell.  But who are you?”

“My vocation?  I’m a theologian.”

Hemingway reacts with another bark of laughter.  “Dangerous business, theology?”

“My injuries, you mean?  These I procured while on holiday.  A bit of a miscalculation on my part.”

While they talk, Russell turns and slowly moves around the gallery, studying the paintings on the wall, Hemingway keeping pace with her. Russell can’t help but smile.  She is enjoying her conversation with this intense, self-assured, and perceptive man, goading him with half-truths, keeping him guessing.  He is eager, and it is quite flattering.  There is much that she finds familiar in Hemingway, his confidence, intensity and intelligence similar to Holmes’, however his outspoken and frank admiration, pursuit even, is entirely and refreshingly different.

“What about this Degas, Semiramis Building Babylon?  An unusually historical theme compared to most of the works here” says Russell.

“You could be the model for Semiramis.”

This elicited Russell’s own bark of laughter.  “A queen?  Commander of an empire, triumphant warrior, builder of wonders, wise ruler?  You flatter me.”

“Mysterious, other worldly.  Degas painted Semiramis the centre of attention but slightly out of focus. Like you.  Who are you, Miss Russell?”

Casting her eyes across the paintings in the gallery, Russell moves across the room. “I could be this one by Renoir, The Reader.”

Joining her to study the painting, “Yes, I can see that, reading, in a café. Luminous, intelligent, self-possessed. The bright red lips are all wrong though, too demanding of attention for you, well, unless it served your purpose. If I were to paint you, I’d have you looking up from the book.  Your eyes are so lively, observant.  You are too engaged in your surroundings to be buried in a book for long.  Actually, you can almost see it in the painting. She’s about to look up, ready for anything, don’t you think?”

“I think, Mr. Hemingway, that you could make an excellent spy.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you? Why do you need a spy?  And why me?”

“Yes, I am serious.  Journalists, good ones anyway, can make excellent informants.  They are observant and resourceful, insert themselves into situations, ask lots of questions and no-one doubts their motive. Your assignment in Turkey gives you relevant experience and necessary background to the issue at hand.  And your features in the Toronto Star have drawn the attention of a very smart and powerful man in the British government. Fortunately, it is he, not I, who requires a spy.  I am just acting as an intermediary.”

“Pity.  I think I’d enjoy spying for you,” says Hemingway with a lingering gaze.  Returning to a casual tone, “Politics doesn’t really interest me, and I have had my fill of war zones.  Besides, I’m on my way to Switzerland tomorrow.”

“Yes.  I know.  Most convenient.”

To that statement, Hemingway has absolutely no reply other than a sharp stare.

“You would be paid handsomely, Mr. Hemingway.  There could be danger.”

“Now you aren’t playing fair. Money and adventure?  Hard for a man to refuse.”

Hemingway strolls away from Russell, walking the galleries, barely glancing at the paintings, until after 15 minutes or so he returns to Cézanne’s Farmyard and studies it anew.  Russell draws up alongside him and waits for him to speak.

“I think, Miss Russell, that the secret of the farmyard is enough for me.  I’m writing well, finding the truth and have good prospects for getting published.  If I keep my focus, you’ll see, you’ll be reading my novels instead of by-lines.”

“You’ll be in Lausanne anyway, tracking the progress of the peace negotiations.”

“Yes, covering the wireless.  Busy work, tedious and time consuming but not distracting.  What you’re talking about, entrenching myself in the Château d’Ouchy, digging deep, that would derail my focus.”

Unwilling to lie, even for, or perhaps especially not for Mycroft, Russell chooses honesty and nods in agreement.  “Yes, yes it would.  But only for a time.”

“That’s it?  You’re not a very persuasive intermediary, Miss Russell,” scolds Hemingway teasingly.  “Perhaps you should stay with theology?”

Matching his playful tone, Russell replies, “So.  You require enticement?  Let’s see.  The money would be significant.  It could alleviate your need to work, fill your stomach, heat your flat.  Instead of taking refuge in cafés, you could write uninterrupted.”

“In Paris it is very easy to be poor and happy.”

“The danger, then.  It is quite real.  You could prove your mettle.”

“I had a war for that, and a leg full of shrapnel.”

“Hmm, I could appeal to your sense of God and Country, but I doubt such traditional ideals would hold much sway.”

“No sway at all.  Too many dirty deeds done in the name of church and state.”

“Then I think I will appeal to your stomach, Mr. Hemingway. Would you care to accompany me to a café for a meal?”

“Didn’t you just eat?”

“But you didn’t.”

“I find that hunger sharpens the mind, allows one to think more clearly.”

“So I’ve been told,” grumbles Russell. “However, I’m recuperating and so should you.  You lost a lot of weight in Turkey.”

“Just how long have you been observing me?”

“Just today.  The sag in your clothes gives you away.  If not a meal, another rum St. James?  Given the opportunity, I may persuade you yet.  Your choice.”

“You are persistent, Miss Russell, and I am persuaded. For a meal and a drink, that is. And since it’s my choice, I propose La Closerie des Lilas.  It’s an excellent café not far from here.  But you’ll have to promise to answer a few of my questions.”

Walking at a comfortable pace, Russell deflects Hemingway’s more probing questions about who she is and her purpose in Paris by asking him about his favourite walks and haunts in the city, learning all about Shakespeare and Company, his favourite bookstore, the flourishing literary and artistic community of the Left Bank and his disdain for literary poseurs. Arriving at the café, Hemingway enters as if he owns it, greeting the staff by name, claiming a favourite table, and ordering drinks for them both.  The thick mahogany table is large and square, easily able to seat four but set for two.  The chairs and place settings are arranged diagonal to one another, on either side of the far corner, thus affording a view back across the room toward the entrance and front windows.

Hemingway settles Russell into the seat to his left, while he takes the seat to her right, drawing his chair almost alongside hers so that the two share the same view through the windows to the wet and dreary garden and boulevard du Montparnasse beyond.  He sits as if in his own living room, legs outstretched, hands behind his head, and waits comfortably for Russell to peruse the menu.  Their drinks arrive; Calvados, an apple brandy from Normandy, and Hemingway orders burgundy snails, pate with toasts, and hard-boiled eggs with mayonnaise sauce for them to share.

Russell, although trying to portray herself as similarly relaxed and content, is wary. Not usually swayed by rugged good looks and a winsome smile, she is surprised by her reaction to him, to find him so appealing. But Hemingway’s manner – young, confident, witty, and unabashedly interested in her is stimulating, bordering on intoxicating.  Intellectually, her caution comes both from his actions, he is after all married, and her reaction, for the same reason.  Not to mention that she has a job to do, so far without success, and must stay focused.  But she also feels something more instinctual.  She has the distinct sense that she’s in the presence of a predator, not in actual physical danger, but at risk nevertheless.  Hemingway’s allure is unmistakable, all the more so because he knows how to wield it, and Russell is on high alert.

It is in that state of mind that Russell welcomes LeRocque with the warmth of a paramour as he enters the café alone about 20 minutes later.  Seeing him enter and scan the crowd, she waves and calls out his name, rising to meet him with a grimace, quickly replaced with a wide smile as he makes his way over to them.  She gives him a brief hug and kiss on the cheek and takes his hand in hers to lead him to the table.

“Mr. Hemingway.  You remember Martin.  He’s the common acquaintance I mentioned.”

To Russell’s surprise and relief, LeRocque seems to fall immediately into step with her sudden affections, accepting her hug and kiss in the offhand manner of a lover or spouse so used to such intimacies that they go virtually unnoticed.  Holmes himself, never one to publicly display his affections, would have been hard pressed to react so naturally, thinks Russell, which immediately presents a new conundrum for her to consider.  How has LeRocque pulled off the act so effortlessly?

As Russell resumes her seat, LeRocque pulls over a chair, sets the back against the table opposite Hemingway and straddles it as he folds his arms across the chair back.  Hemingway, forced to pull his legs in to accommodate LeRocque, sets his chair square to the table and leans slightly forward, feet firmly planted, and swirls his drink with one hand while the other lightly taps the table.  Russell watches, rather bemused, as the two men appear to position themselves as if in a contest and proceed to size each other up, utterly ignoring her for the moment.

“Martin.  Martin LeRocque.  This is a surprise.  It’s been a long time.  Still pounding the pavement for the Sūreté?” Hemingway’s tone suggests disdain both for the work and LeRocque’s presumed rank.

“Ernest Hemingway.  It has been awhile.  Lieutenant now.  Homicide. And you?  Still living in cafés, penning for the papers?”  Running his eyes over Hemingway’s loose and dishevelled clothing, close cropped hair and pale countenance, he continues, “Tough assignment, I’ll wager.  You’re looking a bit beat up.”

“War correspondence.  Nothing I can’t handle” replies Hemingway with a verbal swagger.  Eyes remaining fixed on Martin, he takes a big swallow from his drink.

Their opening gambit seemingly a draw, LeRocque looks pointedly at Russell as he asks, “So Hem, your wife?”  Returning his gaze to Hemingway, “How is Hadley?  Still putting up with your bohemian lifestyle?”

Returning LeRocque’s look, he responds bluntly, “She has a cold.”  Looking to Russell, to see her reaction, “And your wife, LeRocque?  What’s her name?  Simone? What’s she up to?”

“I don’t really know” he replies softly, looking over Hemingway’s shoulder lost in thought.  Half remembering himself he glances down and clarifies, “We’re separated.”

There is an awkward silence during which LeRocque seems to completely deflate, the alpha male wrangling of a moment before completely forgotten.  Resting his elbows on the back of the chair, he closes his eyes as he runs his fingers through his hair.  He holds his head for a moment, drawing a deep breath, before dropping his hands to the table as he exhales.  The waiter arrives with their food, and LeRocque looks up blank faced, as if just remembering where he was.  The waiter asks the newcomer if he wants to see a menu, which LeRocque declines, ordering a café crème.  Looking to Russell he says quietly, as if to himself, “I see you found Hemingway.”

Placing her hand on LeRocque’s, giving it a squeeze to try and get his attention and bring him back into the moment, “Yes. Yes, I did. We met at the Musée du Luxembourg. It’s a remarkable collection.  We discussed the truth to be found in the paintings of Cézanne.”

LeRocque does not reply, does not seem to have even heard, and stares vaguely into the distance. Hemingway tries to get his attention. “LeRocque, tell me.  How did you and Miss Russell meet?”

The waiter arrives with LeRocque’s coffee and jars the Lieutenant from his reverie.

Hemingway waits a moment, and then asks again, “LeRocque?  Miss Russell?”

With the shake of his head, LeRocque snaps into the moment. “What?  Oh.  We met on an investigation.”  He turns to Russell and says with urgency, “Listen.  Mary.  I’m sorry. I can’t do this right now.  I need your help.  She’s missing.  Simone. I think she’s in danger.  We’ve got to find her.”

Hemingway interjects, “Your wife’s in danger and you need your girlfriend’s help?  Look at her, what could she do?”

LeRocque turns to Hemingway, confused, until realization gives rise to a blush as he glances to Russell.  Russell realizes now that LeRocque had seemed to play the part of paramour so well not through skill at playacting but because he’d been too distracted to take notice of her affectionate manner.  Not exactly flattering, thinks Russell, but it does highlight how worried he must be about Simone.  LeRocque gives her hand a quick squeeze before releasing it, straightens his shoulders, and says with the curl of a smile on his lips.  “Trust me, Hem.  You have no idea what my girlfriend is capable of.”

Hemingway bristles, as much from LeRocque’s claim to Russell the woman as to his superior understanding of her.  Pointing his empty glass at LeRocque he sneers, “You’re police, for God’s sake.  Why don’t you man up and leave her out of it?”

The insult unmistakable, LeRocque says with steel in his voice, “Still picking fights, Hem.  Showing your brawn for the ladies.  Mary won’t be so easily impressed.”

Hemingway, leaning toward LeRocque with his fists planted on the table.  “She’s already injured, and you’d put her in danger.  I think it’s time you leave.”

LeRocque mirrors Hemingway’s position.  “Back off, Hem.  And go home.  You’re out of your depth and we don’t have time for this.”

Up until this point, Russell has been observing this display of masculine posturing with something between fascination and disbelief. However, if left to escalate further it would surely draw the attention of the other patrons in the café. Clearing her throat to gain their attention, she draws her knife from her sling and uses it to stab an egg from the plate and point it with a glare first at LeRocque, then at Hemingway, dulling the threat of the weapon to a matronly admonishment.  “Gentleman.  No one is leaving until I say so.”

Russell waits until she sees both men drop their shoulders and reach for their drinks before she takes a bite of the egg, returns the remainder to her plate, wipes her knife clean and tucks it back into her sling.

“Mr. Hemingway, please, bear with us for a moment.  I need to speak with Martin.  He is correct to come to me for help which I’ll explain if I can once I’ve heard his news.”  Hemingway shrugs and looks away as if he doesn’t care but listens carefully as the two quickly exchange information.

“Martin.  It’s been, what, less than 24 hours since we saw her at the hospital.  What makes you think she’s missing?” asks Russell.

“We were supposed to meet today.  For lunch. She didn’t show.”

“She could have forgotten, overslept?  It was a late night.”

“No, you don’t understand.  There is no way she would have missed this.  Besides, I’d already talked to her once today, over the phone.”

“Maybe she was held up? Car broke down, something like that?”

“I waited.  A long time.  I’m telling you, she wouldn’t have missed this.”

“There has to be more to it, Martin, for you to be so worried.”

“Right, well, there’s the phone call.  This morning.  She was asking me all kinds of questions, about you, the investigation we’re working on. She knows better.  That I can’t talk about it.  That I don’t, won’t.  But she really pressed, you know, first tried to cajole me into it, then demanded, then begged.  Just doesn’t make sense.  Why would she care?  Why not wait until she saw me?  It’s all wrong.”

“Alright.  Anything else?”

LeRocque hesitates for a moment and then responds with a blush, “Em, I think I’m being followed.”

Kicking herself for having asked, and a second time for failing to stop LeRocque when she saw his hesitation, Russell quickly considers what to do.  Hemingway is no fool, she thinks, and between asking him to be a spy, and his overhearing references to murder investigations, and now being followed, it’s too late now for discretion.  Better to know what she’s faced with and figure out what to do about Hemingway afterward.  “Followed?”

“Well, you know how I drive, it’s not so easy for someone to keep up.  I noticed the same car kept turning up.  It could be a coincidence, I suppose, but I don’t think so.”

“Since when?”

“Since lunch, I think.  When Simone didn’t show up at the restaurant, I went to her office.   She didn’t come in today, by the way.  From there I went over to The 36,” faltering a bit “and then I came here.”

Hemingway can no longer hold his tongue and blurts his own question. “How’d you know to come here.” Russell holds up her hand to silence LeRocque and looks sharply to Hemingway.  “You already know the answer to that.  Think of a better question.”  Turning back to LeRocque, “What else?”

With a fresh wave of red colouring his ears, LeRocque digs in his trouser pocket, pulls out a small piece of paper and passes it to Russell.  “I almost forgot. I, ah, found this in the car.”

Russell unfolds the piece of paper to see a list written in Holmes’ hand; _reservation at Greek restaurant, return shirt, pick-up tale of Hansel and Gretel_.  Russell wishes LeRocque had given her the note from the start.  Although it doesn’t reveal anything she hadn’t deduced for herself, it would have saved time and she could have kept Hemingway out of it. From the first item on the list, _reservation at Greek restaurant_ , she knows Holmes is engaged with the murder investigation, pursuing the Greek connection, and considers it his priority.  From the fairy tale reference, she knows that he, like she, suspects LeRocque is being followed to get to Holmes and herself, _Hansel and Gretel_.  He’s asked Russell to _pick up the tale_ , meaning draw the tail away from himself so he can disappear, gaining time and a tactical advantage in the murder investigation.  Russell considers what to do about Hemingway and decides it’s only prudent to lead their pursuers away from him as well.  Russell’s first order of business, therefore, will be to _return shirt_ , that is, accompany LeRocque to Simone’s home and determine if and how her disappearance relates to their errands.  The matter of recruiting the journalist will have to be put on hold as she allows herself to be followed, seemingly unawares, to Simone’s.

Russell turns to Hemingway.  “Have you solved it?”

“Yes.  LeRocque knows I frequent cafés so it’s the obvious place to look assuming he knew you were looking for me – which obviously he did.  What does the note say?”

“Is that really your question?  I expect more from you, Mr. Hemingway,” says Russell, passing the note to him to read for himself.

Silence descends at the table for a few moments, with LeRocque grateful not to be the pupil in this examination and Hemingway struggling to meet her challenge. Hemingway, his jaw working as he lets the note float to the table, says “Touché, it’s coded.  Knowing what it says gets me no closer to what it means.  Miss Russell, I think you have some explaining to do. What’s happening here, it isn’t theology and you sure don’t seem like an intermediary.”

Russell responds with a low chuckle.  “I am a theologian.  And my connection to you is as an intermediary.  Actually, everything I’ve said is true.  Or correct, I should say.  The truth, as you understand it, is somewhat more involved.  And I’m afraid I don’t have time to explain.”

“You could start right there. Why not?  What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to find Simone.”  Turning to Martin and looking him in the eye, “Or at least try. I agree, she may be in danger.  I think we should go to her house and look it over carefully together.”  Russell starts to rise, slowly and stiffly, as she continues talking.  “Mr. Hemingway, I’m sorry, but…”

“No” replies Hemingway.

“What?” ask LeRocque and Russell simultaneously.

“I said, no.  This is absurd.  I mean, look at you.  You’re going to hobble your way into God knows what?  Some kind of domestic dispute?  A kidnapping?  This isn’t some penny dreadful with secret messages and villains in cloaks.  A woman’s missing.  He’s being followed?  It’s for the police to sort out.”

“No.  Not the police,” growls LeRocque, low and fierce, hands balled into fists.

Both Russell and Hemingway are startled by LeRocque’s vehemence.  Russell studies him hard and makes a decision.

“No.  Not the police.  Too dangerous.”

“What?” says Hemingway incredulously.  “Better them than you.”

“Not for me, for Simone. It’s too dangerous for Simone.   Mr. Hemingway, you’re just going to have to trust me.  Absurd or not, this is what I do.  I hobble my way into things, particularly things the police are ill suited for, and solve them.  With considerable success, I might add.”

Russell takes a moment to study Hemingway, his reaction to her words and manner, and sees that he is not persuaded.  She suspects that no matter how smart, competent and authoritative a woman presents herself, he would not believe her word alone.  Weighing her options, what might convince Hemingway most efficiently, she turns back to LeRocque who is, like Hemingway, still seated at the table.  She looks into his eyes as she leans down to him, affectionately pushes his hair away from his brow, cups his jaw in her hand, and gives him a lingering kiss on the lips. “If you can’t trust me, Mr. Hemingway, then trust Martin.  He wouldn’t have asked his girlfriend if he had any doubt in her abilities.”

Hemingway looks between the two of them, seeing Russell’s confidence and LeRocque’s awe, and is sufficiently convinced to give them both the benefit of the doubt.  With a shrug of the shoulders and a call over his shoulder for another drink, he says “It’s on you, LeRocque.  I hope you don’t regret it.”

LeRocque stands, throws some money on the table and heads to the door.

“Cloak and dagger, Mr. Hemingway. How’s that for an enticement?  I would have liked to continue our discussion. We could have learned something from one another, I think.  Another time, perhaps.”

“Yes, another time” says Hemingway quietly to Russell’s departing back.

 


	8. Chapter 8

# Chapter 8

**20 November 1922, Paris**

LeRocque is sitting in the car, engine running, by the time Russell exits the café.  Wasting no time, between painful grunts as she climbs into the car, Russell gives LeRocque directions.  “Martin, I need you to drop me off in the Place St. Michael while you go get more petrol for the car.  Pick me up at the Pont Saint-Michel and we’ll go straight to your house from there.”

“We have plenty of petrol.”

“No matter.  If the car following you stays with me, it will confirm that Holmes and I are the object of interest, not you.”

“Merde,” curses LeRocque under his breath while easing into traffic for the short ride to the Place St. Michael.  “Hansel and Gretel, Holmes and Russell.”

“You read the note.  It may be hubris on our part.  We’ll see soon enough.”  Not wanting to dwell on his gaff she forges ahead with more questions.  “Tell me more about Simone’s call this morning.  You said it was all wrong.”

“Yeah, that’s right.  She knows I wouldn’t tell her anything about the investigation.  First rule being married to a police officer. But it’s more than that.  She doesn’t care, hasn’t cared about the troubles of other people for a long time.  No, the more I think about it, it was probably Lucien.  I bet he put her up to it.”

“Lucien?”

“The cretin she’s taken up with, a real bastard.  He’s the only one I can think of who’d be interested in a murder investigation.  He’s Deuxième Bureau, you know, military intelligence

At this surprising and provocative piece of information, Russell asks LeRocque to tell her more about Lucien.

“Simone tells me he’s everything I’m not.  Sophisticated, debonair.  I met him through work and she met him through me.  He dazzled her.  Took her to the opera, ballet, big gala events, that sort of thing.”

“What do you think?”

“I’d agree, he’s everything I’m not.  But not like she means.  He’s a thug. No worse than that, more cunning and manipulative.  Ambitious, cold.  A real ‘ends justify the means’ type.  I think he’s dangerous, capable of anything.  And now with Simone missing…”

“Any idea why he might be interested in the case?”

“No idea.  Curious?  It was pretty irregular, me calling Simone to escort you to the hospital.  I’m just guessing here.”

“What does he specialize in with the Deuxième?  Surveillance, espionage, counter-intelligence?”

“I can’t answer that either.  The Sūretéand Deuxième don’t really mix.  More like the opposite – we keep a careful distance.  I first met him when we were investigating a series of drug-related deaths. One of the victims was a diplomat, and the Deuxième got involved.  We were never involved in that part of the investigation.”

Russell has more to ask, but they’ve arrived at the Place St. Michael.  She points LeRocque to the far end of the square near a sweets shop, Aux Fontaines de Chocolat, and she exits the car. Pretending to window shop, she watches as LeRocque drives away while the car following them remains by the curb a short block away.  Her suspicion confirmed, she enters the sweets shop, buys a variety of macarons, and borrows paper and pen to scribble a brief note for Holmes.  ‘Friend’s friend a possible dog walker, 2 to 6. Still looking.’

Knowing she will be watched, Russell adopts one of Holmes’ favourite techniques for delivering messages; street children.  She steps back onto the street and casts her eyes about as if she’s a tourist and unsure where she is and which direction to go, peering at street signs, walking a few steps in one direction before turning around to walk in the opposite direction.  Having identified a likely candidate, she approaches the child as if to ask directions, while actually negotiating delivery of her note to Holmes at the Hôtel de la Paix. Coming to an agreement in terms, she surreptitiously passes her scribbled note and a franc to the child underneath a macaron.  For the sake of her observer, the two continue in animated conversation, ending with the child pointing her in the direction of the Pont St. Michael, the opposite direction of the hotel.  With a shower of “merci’s” and another macaron, she waves to the child and walks toward her rendezvous with LeRocque, pleased to see that the car stays with her rather than following the child.

Russell stands by the Seine, savouring her macarons while waiting for LeRocque to pick her up.  She smiles at the thought of her follower’s frustration at watching her do nothing more than be a carefree tourist, out for a sweet and a stroll instead of leading him to Holmes or revealing their true purpose here in Paris.  Alone for the moment, she uses the time to reconsider the events that led her to abandon Hemingway in order to hunt for Simone.  From Holmes’ note, she knows their thinking is in accord.  LeRocque had inadvertently led their pursuers to them, which was best managed by leading those pursuers away from Holmes’ and Russell’s true errands – recruiting Hemingway and solving the murders.  The matter of Simone is of unknown relevance and safely pursued while she is being followed, at least until proven otherwise. Had their roles been reversed, Holmes may have anticipated the sensitive nature of LeRocque’s news and avoided Hemingway overhearing the details.  Probably not. She is absolutely sure, however, that Holmes would not have resorted to kissing the Lieutenant in order to extract himself from Hemingway.  Then again, as a man he wouldn’t have had to.

With rare exceptions, Russell has found male chauvinism to be the flip side of chivalry, requiring a weak and helpless damsel to highlight the courtesy and courage of the knight.  Hemingway seemed poised to prevent her from assisting LeRocque in the name of his honour and her protection. She did what the situation required.  Claiming LeRocque as her chosen knight, she circumvented any claim Hemingway may have presumed while elevating his estimation of LeRocque and therefore of LeRocque’s trust in her.  With respect to Hemingway, the kiss had, in fact, worked admirably.

With respect to LeRocque, however, she hadn’t considered the effect of the kiss at all. It wasn’t a role he chose or was even asked to play, and she doubts very much that he saw it coming.  Ever since she and Holmes arrived, they’ve run roughshod over him, using him or abandoning him as suited their purpose.  He, however, has shown them nothing but loyalty, kindness and a remarkable lack of ego.  An honourable knight deserving of respect, concludes Russell, and she resolves to make amends.

“Well that’s settled,” says LeRocque grimly as Russell climbs back into the car.  He pulls abruptly into traffic and drives fiendishly to the house he and his estranged wife once shared.  Noting his intense focus on the road, Russell sits as quietly as she’s able, protecting her ribs as the car dodges obstacles and lurches between starts and stops in the heavy evening traffic.

LeRocque breaks the silence.  “Should I try and shake him?”

“No.  Thank you. It’s better he follows us for now and thinks we don’t realize.”

Now that the silence has been broken, Russell continues, “Mr. LeRocque. Lieutenant. Martin.  I apologize. Please, forgive me.  I shouldn’t have, in the café.  It’s not the first time I’ve acted rashly.  It just seemed the quickest way to extract ourselves from Hemingway.  But it was poorly considered, and I…”

“Are trying to get me killed,” interrupts LeRocque.

“What?  Oh. I’m sorry.  The driving.  I won’t say another word.”

“No, not the driving.  It’s not exactly tanks and mortars out here, is it?” he says as he neatly swerves around a bicyclist.  “The kiss.  You’re trying to get me killed.  He probably knows ten ways to kill someone with his hands tied behind his back.”

“Who?  Holmes? Well, yes, probably more.  But…”

“It’s what I would do.  If you were my wife and I saw another man kissing you.  A fight to the death.  Or maybe a duel.  I’d have a better shot at success, no pun intended.  You’re worthy of that, a noble gesture.”

Russell looks at LeRocque, temporarily stunned by his words. He takes his eyes off the road for a moment, meeting her eyes and flashing a grin, before snatching the last macaron and looking back to the road.  Russell blushes and breaks into laughter, clutching her side.  “Martin.  Your wife. She was a fool to let you get away. If anyone deserves a noble gesture, it’s you.  But for the record, had Holmes been in the café, he would have taken note of who was kissing whom, deduced the cause and, I imagine, played along.”

“Good god.  I think I’d prefer death over trying to pull off that bit of playacting.”

Russell laughs again, lightly but genuinely, before responding as if deeply offended, “Really?  So heinous as all that?  Then I suppose I should apologize.”

LeRocque’s cheeks flush bright red as he pulls to a brief stop in traffic.  Keeping his eyes forward, he responds slowly, cautiously.  “That is not what I meant.”  And then with a nod to himself as they start moving again, “Which of course you know.  You are lethal.  The both of you.”

Russell, acknowledging the truth in his words, responds in kind.  “Martin, you have had to put up with a great deal from us.  You’re a good man and I value your friendship.  Please do accept my apology.”

“Mary.  Believe me. There is nothing to apologize for. On the contrary, I should apologize to you.  You should be sitting by the fire, recovering.”  Hearing Russell’s harrumph he corrects, “Or rather, recruiting your spy and capturing your murderer instead of helping me find Simone.”  After a pause, he continues soberly, “For the record, I’ve been as much a fool as Simone.  We failed each other.  Now it’s too late.  The love is gone and the marriage.  Still, I wouldn’t see her come to harm.”

“No, of course not.  Tell me about her?  Could she be working with the Deuxième Bureau?”

“No. I’m sure of it.  Once, maybe, she could have been persuaded, an idealist serving a cause.  But not since the war.  She’s one of the ones who didn’t quite survive.  Or only survived.  Now she’s… cynical, indifferent.  I can’t see her as some sort of operative.  She’s with Lucien because she doesn’t care anymore about anything, anyone.  Just herself, what she can get.  Things.  A little glamour.”

“She helped me,” says Russell.

“Yes, well, it wasn’t altruism.  She’s done with all that.”

“What did you tell her about us?”

“The truth, at least what I understood of it at the time. That I was working on a murder investigation with Sherlock Holmes and his partner.  I tried to impress her with that, I suppose.  Anyway, I said you were working undercover and got hurt.  That I needed her to be sure you were treated with respect.  She didn’t believe me.  Not until she met you anyway.  She probably still doubts the part about Holmes, she never saw him.  So anyway I, well, bribed her to convince her to come.”

“You were adamant she wouldn’t miss your meeting today.  Is it to do with the bribe?”

LeRocque becomes abruptly quiet and stares in front of him jaw clenched while he waits for the traffic light to change.  Seeing his discomfort, she offers a change in topic signalling her willingness to respect his privacy.  “Those tricolour lights, a great invention.” Although he remains silent, eyes forward, she sees his jaw relax into a soft smile as he realizes her kindness.  It is not lost on either of them that her offer of casual conversation is the very same balm he had used to sooth her grief and shame in the aftermath of that first murder scene.  A simple gesture of respect and acceptance, received with unspoken gratitude.

Once moving again, he continues, “I told her I’d go ahead and attest that reconciliation was impossible.  It’s the final bit of documentation for a divorce.  Wouldn’t you know, she brought a statement with her for me to sign while they’re loading you into the ambulance.  She’s had it ready for weeks.  I refused to sign until you were safely out of the hospital, said I’d meet her today for lunch.  How awful is that?  I couldn’t be sure she’d do right by you once she was rid of me.”

“Martin.  The position we put you in, the divorce, how she treated you, all of it.  And I gave you such a hard time that night, trying to sneak away.  I’m so very sorry.”

“Never mind all that – the divorce, Simone’s behaviour, I should have signed long ago.  As for you, keeping up with you made for a good distraction.  Of course, I could’ve done without Holmes waving his gun about, what with me in your hotel room in the middle of the night.  That was my first inkling you were trying to kill me.”

Russell half laughs, half cringes at the memory of it, and resolves again to make amends.  Sitting up straight as if at attention, she proclaims with formality, “Lieutenant.  All evidence to the contrary, I promise I have not actively tried to kill you.  And from this moment forward, I promise I will try not to kill you inadvertently, either.”

Pulling up to the curb in front of the house, LeRocque turns off the car and replies, “ _Try not to kill you_ – I guess that’s as good as it gets with you two.  Considering that you’re being followed because of me, I suppose I may have inadvertently tried to kill you too.  Let me make up for it.  You stay in the car while I check out the house.”

“Excellent idea,” says Russell.

LeRocque looks at her with frank surprise.  “You’re joking, right?”

“Not for my protection, Lieutenant,” say Russell sternly and emphatically.  “Logic and strategy.  We have two goals, to locate Simone and to discover the identity and intent of our shadow. To find Simone, we need to get into that house which in turn presents an opportunity to observe if and how our follower responds.  Caution dictates separating for tactical advantage.  As this is your house, it’s expected that you’d be the one to enter. I therefore will watch for a reaction and cover you from here until the next course of action reveals itself.”

“And if he comes for you while I’m in the house?”

“That would be revelatory, wouldn’t it,” says Russell with a gleam.  In response to the look of growing alarm on LeRocque’s face she continues, “However, I think it’s unlikely.  I’m not going anywhere, so why show his hand so plainly?”

Whatever her reasons, LeRocque figures Russell is safer inside the car than outside.  Without another word, he climbs out of the car and heads toward the house.


	9. Chapter 9

# Chapter 9

**20 November 1922, Paris**

Russell sits in the car, studying the house and street, as LeRocque exits the car to investigate the house he no longer shares with his wife Simone.  Immediately she notices that in addition to herself and her follower, there is a man seated in a car across the road, several houses up.  Russell grimaces wryly as she considers how much attention this otherwise unremarkable house is receiving.  The building is a modest, two story, single family home built in a flurry of post war construction.   The small front garden, walkway and house match those to either side and all along the block, not yet showing distinctive characteristics typical of homes in a more established neighbourhood.  Confident that both observers are remaining in their cars, Russell’s attention returns to the lieutenant who is just arriving at the front door. LeRocque knocks and waits but no one opens to the door.  He tries his key, only to discover to his consternation that it no longer fits the lock.  Flushed with anger and embarrassment he returns to the car to confer with Russell.

Russell informs the Lieutenant of their second observer which raises both the urgency of their task and threat of danger.  They agree she should maintain her position and cover him while he escalates his efforts by smashing a window.  Aside from getting into the house, Russell hopes it will goad their observers into revealing themselves.  LeRocque strides back toward the house, grasping the barrel of his gun in his left hand with the intent of using the butt end to break the window.  This has the desired effect.  Their follower steps from the car and quickly, discretely, waves off the other observer.  While that car drives down the road and out of sight, the man hurries toward LeRocque shouting, “Hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing.”

“Lucien!  What the hell are you doing here?  Where’s Simone?”

The man stops and the two stand facing one another about 15 feet apart.  “I followed you here, you imbécile!  First that bullshit story and now you’re trying to break into her house.  You may have fooled Simone, but I’m not stupid, LeRocque.  The Sūreté don’t ask their wives for help.  Not unless they have something to hide.  So who is that woman really?  Some whore you shot her pimp over?”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I know she’s in your car and you’re breaking into Simone’s house.”

“My house,” growls LeRocque.

“Want to guess who has the key?” sneers Lucien.

“You changed the locks.  Why?  You have something to hide?”

“Simone changed the locks.  Said she was scared of you.”

“Bullshit.” spits LeRocque as he locks eyes with Lucien.  Speaking with the authority of the Sūreté, “Now unlock the door.”

Lucien pulls his coat aside to show his gun.  “I think you’re up to no good.  There’s no way I’m letting you go in there without a warrant.”

“You’re threatening a police officer.” Transferring his own gun to his right hand, keeping it aimed at the ground. Continuing with controlled ferocity. “It’s my house.  Try and stop me and I’ll arrest you for trespassing.”

“You’ve crossed the line, LeRocque.  This isn’t a police action.  It’s breaking and entering.”  To add the force of threat to his accusation, Lucien, without breaking eye contact, slowly pulls his own gun, also directing it to the ground.

Russell has seen enough to know that Lucien is a sophisticated opponent playing a dangerous game.  He is deftly manipulating LeRocque’s weaker position (locked out of his own home and without official standing) while simultaneously concealing Lucien’s true motives – to hide whatever’s in the house and gain more information about Holmes and herself.  He’s counting on his superior position, both as an agent of the DeuxièmeBureau and the man who stole LeRocque’s wife, to force him to capitulate in a direct confrontation.  If it were just the two of them, it would probably have worked.

Instead, Russell intends to match him move for move, turning the tables to learn whatever she can about him and Simone, starting with getting into the house.  For the second time in as many hours, Russell needs to diffuse the mounting tension between two posturing men, only this time there are guns involved and it’s not about impressing a girl.  Since Lucien has chosen to play the role of hothead boyfriend, hers will be the placating innocent bystander, ignorant of hidden agendas and defenceless.  Lucien may not believe it, but he’ll have to play along in order to maintain his own ruse.

Russell, having stepped out of the car unnoticed, slams the car door behind her to get their attention.  Both men freeze but continue glaring at one another.

“Gentleman, please, you are frightening me.”  Turning to Lucien with wide eyes and a tremor in her voice, Russell pleads, “Sir, please, Simone helped me in my time of need and I asked the Lieutenant here to help me thank her.  When he couldn’t locate her, I insisted on accompanying him here.  Please, can’t we assuage his fears?  He just needs to know she’s safe.  If you won’t let him inside, might I could go in his place?”

There’s an awkward silence, as LeRocque has no idea how to react to this newest incarnation of Russell and Lucien calculates how to parry her advance.  He stalls for time. “I don’t know you. Why would I let you in?”

Dodging the question, Russell says.  “Yes, of course, you should accompany me.  I promise I’m not here to steal anything.”  Gesturing to the Lieutenant, “I, we, just want to be sure Simone is safe.”

LeRocque does not like where this is going, worried Russell is putting herself at risk.  Russell is horrified to hear him announce, “There’s no way I’m letting her go in there alone with you.”

To her credit, she manages to stifle her ire at yet another ridiculous display of male chauvinism.  She quickly amends her proposition.  “Then all three of us, together.  Can’t you see, it’s the only way to reassure the Lieutenant.  Surely you two can set aside your differences for Simone’s sake.”

The two men continue to eye each other carefully without moving. Russell turns first to LeRocque, then Lucien, and pleads again.  “Please, both of you, put your guns away.  We’ll go in together, for Simone’s sake.”

Lucien realizes he’s been out manoeuvred.  To refuse now would only draw attention and suspicion to himself, from the Sūreté and, if Simone’s tale is to be believed, from Holmes. Coming to a decision, he shrugs his shoulders and with a smile that does not reach his eyes, puts his gun back in its holster.  “For Simone’s sake.”

LeRocque snorts but holsters his gun as well.  All three gather at the front door and, after some awkward jostling for position, Lucien unlocks it and LeRocque pushes his way in first, followed by Lucien and Russell.  While LeRocque calls out Simone’s name several times, getting no response, Russell closes the door behind them and surveys the space.  They have entered directly into a large sitting room that spans the majority of the front of the house. Along the right-hand wall is a staircase leading to the first floor.  Underneath is a cupboard and, further back, a wide arched entryway to a small living space beyond.  In the back of the sitting room to the left is an open doorway leading to the kitchen and, she later learns, an attached dining area which together comprise the back of the house.

Surreptitiously studying each other, the three walk in silent procession through each ground floor room, peering closely at everything from floor to ceiling.  LeRocque leads the way, Lucien taking the rear and Russell acts as a buffer between them. The rooms are mostly tidy and unassuming, furnished for utility and comfort, and feel orderly but lived in. Coats hang from hooks to one side of the doorway, shoes lined up underneath.  Along the left wall near the coats is a sideboard with a lamp, shade askew and some framed family photographs, none of which contain the Lieutenant.  The centre of the room is occupied by a large couch, piled with extra cushions and a rumpled throw blanket.  Standard lamps and chairs stand to either side of the couch and a coffee table, a few books and magazines scattered across it, sits in front.  The kitchen is generally clean but for a couple of plates with crumbs set on the counter beside a small pitcher of cream, butter dish and marmalade, and a newspaper spread across a table.  LeRocque steps around the waste bin, oddly placed a few feet from the wall, to peer through the window in the door leading to the back garden.

Continuing their circuit through the dining room into the den and then back to the sitting room, they don’t find Simone or anything suggestive of a struggle or violence. Lucien loudly protests as LeRocque heads for the staircase to search the first floor, but Russell successfully calms the rancour, citing the waste of time and their common cause to find Simone.  Their procession resumes as before, mounting the stairs to search the two bedrooms, toilet and washroom.

One of the bedrooms looks to be a guestroom, slightly dusty and seldom used.  The closet is open and, from the nap in the rug, it’s evident something has been dragged across the floor.  Entering the second bedroom, it’s clear the guest room closet had contained a large piece of luggage which now lays open atop the bed, half full.  In it are a jumble of Simone’s clothing, a pile of shirts and undergarments, a couple dresses, and a pair of shoes but little else. The Lieutenant is growing increasingly tense, his whole body becoming taut, his eyes darting from closet, to dresser, to desk, to bed.  Russell surmises he is reacting to the undeniable evidence that Lucien shares his wife’s bedroom, at least on a part-time basis.  Some of his shoes and suits are in the closet, cufflinks on the dresser, and a tie is draped over a bedpost.

“Want to explain this?” barks LeRocque, indicating the portmanteau.

“I should think it’s obvious.  She’s going on holiday.”

“Never mentioned it to me,” growls LeRocque.

“Why would she?” cuts Lucien.

Looking to Russell, LeRocque says “Check her appointment journal, there on the desk.  She writes everything down in there, very meticulous.”

Russell takes some time rifling through the book to find the correct page.  She reads off the words ‘Lucien, Switzerland’ and tomorrow’s date.

“Sounds like you are going, not her,” says LeRocque to Lucien.

“I am.  For work. It’s been planned for weeks.  She’s decided to take a holiday and join me.” Lucien reaches his hand inside his coat and LeRocque explodes into motion, pulling his gun and pointing it directly at Lucien’s chest, hammer cocked, just an arms-length away in the tight quarters.  With nerves of steel and practiced nonchalance, Lucien drops his hand “I just wanted to show you her ticket.  I have it right here.”

The gun still levelled at Lucien, LeRocque asks Russell to check.  Russell has no difficulty pretending agitation as she steps toward Lucien awkwardly.  Blushing with embarrassment, she removes a folded paper from his inside coat pocket and reads it aloud with shaking hands, confirming it’s a train ticket to Switzerland leaving tomorrow afternoon at 2. LeRocque tilts the gun away from Lucien and returns it to his holster.  Russell releases an exaggerated sigh of relief and turns to LeRocque in flustered agitation.  “Really Lieutenant, I think we should leave.  We’ve confirmed she’s not here and nothing seems amiss.  We’ll just have to look elsewhere.”

With Russell leading the way, the three turn to file out of the room but Russell stumbles a bit to the side and clutches the armour. “Oh my, I think I need to splash some cold water on my face.  I’ll be down in a moment.”  With her hands on the walls to steady herself, she enters the washroom and, leaving the door open, turns on the faucet.  LeRocque, nudging Lucien ahead of him, continues past her down the hall and the two proceed back down the steps.  In less than a minute, Russell has re-joined them and the three exit the house.  Lucien locks the door behind them, but before he can return the keys to his pocket, LeRocque grasps his wrist with one hand and the keys with the other.

“I’ll take those,” says LeRocque with authority.  “I’m going to launch a missing persons investigation, Lucien, and you’re my prime suspect.  Don’t even think about leaving town.”

Allowing LeRocque to take the keys, he says, “By all means, embarrass yourself Lieutenant.  We both know the Sūreté won’t get in the way of the DeuxièmeBureau.”

Spitting sarcasm, “Still planning on leaving.  Nice.  Your concern for Simone is touching.”

“You do your job. I’ll do mine.  There’s nothing to implicate me except your imagination.  In fact, I think I’ll follow you back to The 36 and make my own report.  I’m sure your superiors will want to know how she came to be at a crime scene in Pigalle. I’d be careful, LeRocque.  If anyone’s suspect it’s you.”

Lucien turns to go to his car and Russell heads for theirs.  LeRocque stands for a moment clenching his fists before striding around the car and climbing into the driver’s seat.  Russell remains quiet, giving LeRocque time to rein in his rage as he drives them swiftly through traffic toward the Quai des Orfèvres.  Slowly his breathing becomes deeper and his hands relax on the steering wheel.

“So, what was that about?  I’m more likely to swoon than you.”

“I wanted his shoe.”

“What?”

With a triumphant smile, Russell pulls a man’s shoe from her sling.

LeRocque keeps looking back and forth between the road and Russell’s gleaming face, not understanding.

Russell clarifies.  “We have a footprint left by a man’s dress shoe at both the Wilson and Girard murder scenes.  Now we have a shoe.”

LeRocque slams on the brake, narrowly avoiding hitting the car that has stopped in traffic in front of him.  Russell lets out a sharp invective as she flies forward into the dashboard, blunting the impact with her right arm.

“You think Lucien is involved in the murders?  Sorry, by the way.”

Rolling her eyes at his offhand apology, Russell resumes her seat, bracing herself for further violence to her ribs.  “Shoes can tell a great deal about the person wearing them, how they walk, old injuries, where they’ve been.  The pattern of wear is not as specific as a finger print of course, but in general all of our shoes have a similar pattern of wear. Laboratory samples like soil or material can add certainty.  Holmes took samples and made a careful study of the footprints left at the murder scenes.  If this shoe was at the scene, we can deduce it.  If Lucien was at the scene, any of his shoes could suggest it.”

“So, you think Lucien is involved in the murders?” asks LeRocque again.

“A hunch, not yet refuted by the evidence.”

“A hunch,” repeats LeRocque.

“Not yet refuted by the evidence.  That’s the important part.  Holmes has them too, you know, although he might not call it that. Think of it as the subconscious making a leap before you have completely worked it out consciously.

“I don’t get it, it’s too far-fetched.  The murderer you’re looking for happens to be my wife’s lover?  What are the chances?  Mind you, I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“That’s right.  You wouldn’t, and you didn’t.  I think you suspected him as soon as Simone disappeared, even if you didn’t realize it.  You were adamant, back in the café with Hemingway, no police.  That only makes sense if you connected Simone’s disappearance with these other events.”

“Oh, come on.  I may have thought it, but I don’t actually believe it.  It’s just a coincidence,” argues LeRocque.  “We’re programmed to find patterns even when none exist.  Two bad things happen in a row and you link them together.  First day stuff at the police academy.  You know that.”

“Yes.  That’s why we test instead of believe.  Holmes is fond of saying there is no such thing as coincidence and also that ‘Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.’  As you said, by mere coincidence it’s ludicrously improbable to think your wife’s lover is the murderer we seek.  But as soon as you mentioned that Lucien works for the Deuxième, his involvement in the murders became plausible.  Our job is to ignore the coincidence, find the logic, and test it.”

“Hang on, you’ve suspected since then.  And you didn’t think to mention it?” demands LeRocque.

“Suspected is too strong a word.  Think about what we knew at the time.  Lucien is Deuxième– so he may be involved in counter-intelligence operations. Simone learns of us and may have passed that information along to Lucien, whether she believed you or not. There’s an unexpected phone call. Lucien could have used Simone to learn more about us.  You’re being followed.  He may be trying to get to us.  It’s plausible, but all conjecture.  Now we have much more information.”

“And?”

“We haven’t yet eliminated the possibility.”  LeRocque holds his tongue and keeps driving so Russell tries to clarify.  “What do we know now?  Simone did tell Lucien about us, he said as much himself, calling it your ‘bullshit story’. We saw Simone’s shoes and earrings in the house, the one’s she wore at the hospital, so we know she came back here after the hospital.  That’s consistent at least with the theory Lucien was behind all her questions over the phone.  You are being followed, we know it’s Lucien and he professes to be following you.  Our little test proved he’s following me instead and so we’ve caught him in a lie, trying to hide his true motives.  Finally, he tried very hard to keep us out of the house.  There could be many reasons for that, related to Simone’s disappearance, to the murder investigation, or both.  Now we have his shoe, a train ticket to Switzerland, and our observations from inside the house.”

LeRocque abruptly pulls into a side street and turns off the car.  Lucien comes to an abrupt halt behind them but stays in his car to see what they do next. LeRocque smiles devilishly as he looks into the rear-view mirror, apparently pleased to be toying with Lucien, before lighting a cigarette and closing his eyes to think.  Russell waits him out.

After a few minutes LeRocque says, “Holmes doesn’t know about Lucien – who he works for.”

“He knows by now.  While you were getting petrol, I had a message delivered to him at the hotel – _Friend’s friend a possible dog walker, 2 to 6_.” LeRocque clenches his jaw and shakes his head but makes no move to speak.  Russell elaborates.  “Friend’s friend is Simone’s friend, Lucien.  A dog walker is someone with a leash.  Remember, we called Vokos the monster on the end of someone’s leash. Holmes is sure to get the reference. Two to five, the French and English military intelligence branches –  DeuxièmeBureau and MI6. If Lucien’s involved, it may mean French military intelligence is behind the murders of the MI6 operatives.  I said ‘ _possible_ ’, so he knows it’s too soon to divert from his current line of enquiry.”

“That’s it?” asks LeRocque, rolling his eyes.

“I also confirmed I’m helping you find Simone.”

LeRocque erupts in frustration at being so out of his depth, always at least 10 steps behind both of them.  Turning to her, he asks sarcastically, “What was your code for that?  Cat sitter on holiday?  Rupunzel’s haircut, 1 to 3?”

“Oh no, something much subtler,” responds Russell mildly. ‘ _Still Looking_ ’.”

LeRocque is in no mood to appreciate the irony.  He is fed up, tired of being oblivious to their schemes and at the mercy of their cheek.  Turning away from her, he blurts out, “God I hate you two.”  He slumps back into his seat, drawing deeply from his cigarette, and tries to regain his composure before asking his next question.  Without looking at her he asks quietly and plainly, “Mary?  Where’s Simone in all of this?  Victim? Accomplice?  You should tell me.  I need to know.”

“I don’t know, Martin.  It may be one, or the other, or something else entirely.  We have a lot more information now than an hour ago, but not enough to draw any firm conclusions.”

“Really?  A lot more information?  What exactly did you see?” asks LeRocque with dread, fully resigned to be once again informed of everything he’s missed.

“I was going to ask you the same thing?”

“Oh, please.  We both know you’re way ahead of me on this.”

“Martin, this isn’t a competition.”

“No, it’s a schooling.  The only thing I’ve learned is that I’m in the wrong line of work. You once suggested tour guide. You’re right, it’s clearly more my speed.”

“If I had tried to compete with Holmes’ experience and power of deduction, I’d have given up long ago.  I bring a different lens.  So do you.”

“Mary, I doubt you really mean that, but regardless, you’re wrong.”

“I’m right.  Especially in this case.  You know these people, that house, what’s out of place.”

LeRocque scoffs and shakes his head again, tortured by the truth of it.  Everything was out of place.  And Russell saw it, all too clearly.  The changed lock.  The missing pictures of him.  Lucien’s presence, all over the house, in the kitchen, the bedroom.  His cuckolding – laid bare.

“All I saw in that house was Lucien.  I’m too close to this.”

“You’re a detective, Lieutenant, not a victim. Divorce what you saw from what you feel. Analyse it!”

LeRocque explodes with anger, driving his fist into the ceiling of the car.  Refusing to look at Russell, he throws the butt of his cigarette from the window, starts the car and tears down the streets, making three quick turns to get back onto the main road.  Lucien races to keep up, ploughing into traffic in hot pursuit, a chorus of honks and squeals in his wake.

“Whatever you want from me, Mary, I don’t have.  I saw exactly what you saw but you’re the only one who’ll realize what it means.  Simone’s shoes and earrings – you’re the one who saw it as evidence that Simone came home. There’s nothing I can tell you that you don’t already know, that you haven’t already figured out.”

“You don’t know that.  None of us know what we don’t know, only what we do know.  You lived with Simone, in that house, it’s only logical you have knowledge that I lack.  We’re just going to have to work it through, room by room.  Share our observations.  That’s how this works.  If you trust that I can find Simone, then you have to trust my method as well.”

Russell gets no response as the silence lengthens by minutes. Eventually she decides to interpret his silence as acquiescence.  “We’ll start upstairs, in the bedroom, her suitcase.  Lucien said she was packing to go on holiday.  I don’t think so.”

“No, I don’t buy it either.”  Russell waits for him to elaborate.  “For one thing, she’s not spontaneous – not about something like travelling.  Holidays are a big deal to her and she’s too methodical to just throw a bag together. Usually she’d use the guest bed to assemble what she’s going to bring. She can plan for weeks before she got it all sorted.”

“That’s consistent with the bag itself.  It looked like a random assortment of clothing, not outfits, shirts but not trousers, more thrown into the bag than packed.  And her calendar, on the same day it said ‘Lucien, Switzerland’, she had also written ‘Shopping, Elle’.  The next day it said  ‘Haircut’ and ‘Tante mère’.  Those seem like appointments to me.”

“Elle is short for Giselle – a childhood friend.  They get together every now and then to go shopping, then out to dinner, make a big night of it, just the girls.  Tante mère is a sort of adopted mother to Simone although she’s not an actual relation.  She must be coming into town.  She lives on this isolated farm out in the country, I’m not exactly sure where.”

“Maybe Simone planned to go there?”

LeRocque snorts.  “Not likely.  Rustic living and Simone don’t really go together.”

The two continue their discussion, room by room, comparing notes.  They fall into a rhythm, like a tennis match, trading observations and clarifications, back and forth.  Over and over they agree in what they saw and what it might mean, with LeRocque able to add context, bolstering their conclusion.

“The lampshade by the coatrack.  I think she grabbed a coat in a rush and knocked it askew,” says Russell.

“Yeah, it’s happened before.  You’d think we’d have learned and moved the lamp.  Normally she’d straighten it right away.  She had to have been in a rush,” says LeRocque.  “An off-kilter lampshade – that’s enough to drive her to distraction.”

“And the stuff left out on the kitchen counter, the milk and butter, the dishes?”

“The same thing, right?  She never leaves stuff out – she’s really conscientious about that sort of thing.”

“The waste bin too.  Pulled into the middle of the floor.  I’m guessing she had to move it out of the way to go out the back door.”

“Well, you’re sort of right, but I don’t think so.”

“What do you mean, sort of?”

“The bin, it does block the door.  We don’t usually go out that way, so it doesn’t matter.”

“So it fits.  She’s in a rush and decides for whatever reason it’s faster to go that way.”

“Well she didn’t.  I checked.”

“Martin, I really think she did. Why else would the bin be moved?  Besides, there were crumbs on the floor and some had been pushed out of the way by the swing of the door.  What did you see that I missed?”

“Well I didn’t see the crumbs on the floor, that’s for sure.  I guess she could’ve gone that way, but then she wasn’t in a rush.  You looked out the window, right, saw the storm door was closed.  It’s broken.  It’s a real pain to get back in place once it’s opened – it takes forever, even if you know the trick.”

“Martin, that’s it!” cries Russell jubilantly.  “I told you – you looked and you saw with a different lens!”

“She concealed her movements.  She’s on the run,” concludes LeRocque.

“Exactly.  She’s not an accomplice or a victim.  She’s on the run.”

“Mary.”

“Martin?”

“You were right.  Again.”

“Do you hate me for it?”

“It’s more of a love-hate.  Like siblings.”

“Oh, don’t say that,” implores Russell, the horror written across her face.

“What? What did I say?” asks LeRocque, genuinely taken aback by her inexplicable distress.

“Cousins, Martin.  Let’s go with cousins.”


End file.
